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MT  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 


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MY  LIFE  AND 
SOME  LETTERS 


BY 
MRS.  PATRICK  CAMPBELL 

(BEATRICE  STELLA  CORNWALLIS-WEST) 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS 


NEW  YORK 
DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

1922 


Copyright.  1922, 
By  DODD,  mead  AND  COJVIPANY,  Inc. 


PRINTED    IN    U.    S.   A. 


DEDICATION 

I  CAME  out  by  the  stagedoor  of  the  Duke  of 
York's  Theatre  at  a  quarter-past  twelve  on  the 
first  night  of  the  production  of  Madame  Sand, 
by  Phillip  Moeller.  A  girl  of  about  fifteen, 
bare-headed,  was  standing  against  the  wall, 
evidently  waiting  for  some  one.     I  said: 

"What  are  you  waiting  for?" 

"To  see  you." 

"Where  do  you  live?" 

"At  Richmond." 

"How  are  you  going  to  get  back?" 

"Walk.  I  walked  here  early  this  morning. 
I  wanted  to  get  a  good  place  to  see  the  play, 
and  I  did:  and  now  I  have  been  waiting  to 
see  you." 

Then,  with  a  wild  young  look  of  ecstasy, 
she  vanished  into  the  night. 

To  her  I  dedicate  this  book. 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell Frontispiece 

FACING     PAGE 

The  faithful  Uncle  Harry 20 

"Pat"  Campbell 42 

In  one  of  her  most  famous  roles 66 

As  Clarice  in  "The  Black  Domino" 84 

As  she  first  appeared  in  "The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray"   .  108 

With  George  Alexander  in  Act  I   of  "The  Second  Mrs. 

Tanqueray" 126 

"There  was  a  little  poem  in  this  play,  'Butterflies,'  that  he 

let  me  recite" 144 

In   "The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray" 164 

With  Madame  Sarah  Bernhardt  in  "Pelleas  and  Melisande"   180 

In  "Mrs.  Jordan" 196 

On  her  first  American  tour 216 

Touring  the  United   States  under  the   direction  of  Liebler 

and  Company 230 

Again   in   "The   Second   Mrs.   Tanqueray" 252 

As  Eliza  Doolittle  in  George  Bernard  Shaw's  "Pygmalion"  270 

An    impressionistic   photo 288 

On  one  of  her  later  tours  to  America 306 

George    Bernard    Shaw 324 

Sir  James  Barrie   (with  cup  and  walking  stick)   at  a  coffee 

stall   in   England 346 

Eliza  Doolittle   in   "Pygmalion" 370 

Mrs.   Cornwallis-West 376 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING    PAGE 

Beo  with  officials  at  Fourth  Senior  Officers'  School  .      .      .    386 

Mrs.    Patrick   Campbell   and   her   two   children   just   before 

Beo  entered  the  Navy 396 

As   America    remembers   her 414 

George  Sand  in  "Madame  Sand" 432 


MT  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 


MY   LIFE  AND  SOME 
LETTERS 

CHAPTER  I. 

WITH  some  little  difficulty  I  have  gathered 
together    the    following    romantic    and 
rather  remarkable  facts  of  my  family 
history: — 

My  grandfather,  John  Tanner,  was  a  descendant 
of  Thomas  Tanner,  Bishop  of  St.  Asaph;  born  1693, 
died  1735.  He  had  a  son,  Thomas  Tanner,  who  was 
Rector  of  "St.  Edmund  The  King  and  Martyr,"  and 
Rector  of  Merstham,  Surrey;  also  Prebendary  of 
Canterbury. 

■9|f  *  *  * 

My  grandfather  went  out  to  India  as  a  very  young 
man,  and  eventually  became  Army  Contractor  to  the 
British  East  India  Company.  He  made  a  large  for- 
tune— married  Mary  Ann  Davis  in  1823.  They 
lived  at  Byculla  Park,  Bombay;  seven  children  were 
born  to  them,  the  eldest — my  father — John  Tanner; 
William,  Oscar,  Fred,  Emily,  Emma,  and  my  dear 
"Uncle  Harry"  (Henry  Ward  Tanner). 

My  father  and  my  mother,  Maria  Luigia  Gio- 
vanna  Romanini,  fell  helplessly  in  love  at  their  first 


2         MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

meeting:  my  mother  could  not  speak  a  word  of  Eng- 
lish, and  my  father  not  a  word  of  Italian.  He  was 
twenty-one,  she  was  seventeen. 

The  marriage  caused  great  excitement  in  Bombay 
at  the  time,  my  father  being  the  heir  of  one  of  the 
richest  Anglo-Indians,  my  mother  the  daughter  of 
an  Italian  political  exile.  They  had  six  children, 
three  born  in  India,  my  two  brothers  and  myself  in 
London. 

My  father,  it  seems,  managed  to  get  through  two 
large  fortunes;  he  was  careless  with  money,  excep- 
tionally generous,  delighting  in  business  enterprise 
and  speculation.  I  had  a  letter  from  him  in  June, 
1893,  which  gives  an  account  of  his  early  financial 
difficulties.  After  mentioning  some  trouble  con- 
nected with  a  Consular  post,  he  writes: — 

"I  can  scarcely  imagine  how  nearly  half  a  million 
pounds  sterling  which  I  possessed  in  1864  could  have 
been  dissipated,  but  the  fact  is  that  I  was  overtaken  in 
my  vast  expectations  by  two  severe  crises  in  London. 
To  this  day  our  Government  is  owing  me  £50,000  or 
more,  compensation  for  valuable  services,  and  losses  I 
sustained,  during  the  Indian  Mutiny.  All  the  Execu- 
tive Offices  of  our  Government  in  the  Ordnance  and  Com- 
missariat gave  their  unqualified  endorsement  to  my  claim, 
but  it  eventually  fell  through.  I  was  badly  treated,  in- 
deed, and  upon  appealing  to  Lord  Derby,  recently  dead, 
he  offered  a  suggestion  to  the  Local  Government  as  a 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS         3 

'pis  aller'  out  of  the  difficulty.  There  it  ended.  My 
good  friend,  Isaac  Butt,  M.  P.,  offered  to  agitate  the  mat- 
ter in  Parliament,  but  being  very  rich  on  my  return  from 
India  in  1872,  I  had  destroyed  my  documents.  It  was  on 
record  and  will  be  found  in  the  Archives  of  the  War 
Office  that  'but  for  the  celerity  and  magnitude  of  Mr. 
Tanner's  Ordnance  Supplies  the  guns  could  not  have  been 
brought  into  position  or  the  capture  of  Delhi  ef- 
fected.' .  .  ." 

People  who  knew  my  father  well,  spoke  with  much 
love  of  his  extraordinary  kindliness  and  buoyant 
spirits. 

^  ^  M^  *  M^ 

My  Italian  grandfather,  Count  Angelo  Romanini, 
born  in  Brescia,  was  at  one  time  a  man  of  consider- 
able position.  We  have  a  tradition  that  he  owned 
large  estates  of  chestnut  groves. 

During  the  Austro-Italian  War  he  joined  the 
Democratic  Society  known  as  the  Carbonari  and  fell 
into  serious  political  trouble.  Aided  by  a  firman 
from  the  Sultan  of  Turkey,  Abdul  Medjid,  he 
travelled  unmolested  over  Eastern  Europe. 

My  grandmother,  Rosa  Polinelli,  came  from  Mi- 
lan. They  had  eight  beautiful  daughters,  six  of 
whom  under  the  age  of  eighteen  married  English- 
men. 

My  grandfather  had  a  passionate  love  for  horses. 
We  were  told  when  we  were  children  of  his  going 
into  a  stable,  where  there  was  a  wild,  unmanageable 


4        MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

creature  that  no  one  would  approach,  and  of  his 
coming  out  in  twenty  minutes  leading  the  animal, 
feeding  from  his  hand. 

Owing,  no  doubt,  chiefly  to  this  power  and  affec- 
tion he  became  for  a  time  the  proprietor  of  an 
equestrian  company. 

Unfortunately,  whenever  I  asked  questions  about 
this  ''Circus,"  which  interested.me  profoundly,  I  was 
hushed.  Only  my  mother  smiled,  and  I  thought 
that  some  day  she  would  tell  me  about  it,  but  she 
never  did. 

***** 

People  say  that  if  they  read  the  old  letters  of  their 
mothers  and  grandmothers,  it  is  difficult  to  realise 
that  they  were  creatures  of  flesh  and  blood;  and  if 
the  chronicle  be  enriched  with  some  high  adventure 
or  escapade,  it  only  makes  an  impression  as  though  a 
brightly  coloured  foreign  bird  flew  through  a  quiet 
garden. 

My  own  experience  is  diflferent.  My  Italian 
mother  and  her  beautiful  sisters  were  invested  for  me 
with  great  romantic  glamour  that  has  remained  with 
me.  And  the  few  stories  I  was  told  about  their 
youthful  adventures  delight  me  now  as  they  did  when 
I  was  a  child,  and  felt  proud  they  were  my  people. 

My  life  appeared  to  me  to  have  sprung  from  a 
magical  past,  in  which  Italy,  Persia,  India — white 
houses  with  flat  roofs,  white-robed  Arabs,  and  lovely 
Arab  horses — and  my  beautiful  aunts — were  all  seen 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS         5 

through  a  mist  of  childish  imaginings;  built  upon 
stories  I  was  told,  photographs  and  letters  I  had 
seen,  my  mother's  sweet  singing  voice,  her  delicious 
Italian  accent,  her  guitar,  and  the  many  languages 
she  spoke,  among  them  Greek  and  Arabic. 

It  is  because  of  the  effect  these  things  made  upon 
my  childish  mind  that  I  record  them  briefly. 

These  were  the  names  of  my  aunts: — Regina, 
Stella,  Carolina,  Angela,  Theresa,  and  Theodora,  and 
another  who  died  very  young.  The  story  of  the 
death  of  this  beloved  youngest  child  shows  my 
grandfather  as  a  man  of  passionate  feeling — he 
turned  her  sick  room  almost  into  a  chapel,  with 
candles  and  crucifixes:  prayers  were  said  continu- 
ously. The  child  died — my  grandfather  blew  out 
the  candles,  broke  the  crucifixes,  and  was  never 
known  to  pray  again. 

***** 

A  caravan,  with  my  grandfather  and  grandmother, 
their  children  mounted  ahead  on  Arab  horses! 
This  picture  was  probably  fixed  in  my  childish  mind 
by  the  following  anecdote.  My  aunts,  whilst  riding, 
found  a  poor  woman  who  had  just  given  birth  to  a 
child  by  the  roadside;  not  knowing  what  to  do,  they 
slipped  off  their  petticoats  and  left  them  with  her, 
to  the  dismay  of  their  mother  when  they  returned  to 
the  caravan. 

Eventually  my  grandfather  travelled  to  India  and. 


6         MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

I  believe,  settled  for  some  time  in  Bombay.  His 
eldest  daughter,  Aunt  Regina,  married  Richard 
Stevens,  British  Consul  at  Tabriz,  Persia. 

My  Uncle  Richard's  official  work  took  him  away 
from  Aunt  Regina  a  great  deal,  and  the  following 
story  I  treasured.  One  evening,  tired  of  waiting  for 
him,  she  dressed  herself  in  his  uniform,  with  his 
sword  at  her  side.  When  he  returned  late  at  night 
and  opened  the  door  of  his  wife's  bedroom,  he  saw 
in  the  dim  light  a  young  officer  standing  with  his 
back  to  him.  His  horror  and  dismay  can  be  imag- 
ined! The  ''young  man"  turned  round,  and  he  met 
his  wife's  laughing  eyes. 

They  had  a  son,  Hadji  Baba  Stevens,  to  whom  the 
then  Shah  of  Persia  stood  godfather.  He  worked  as 
a  young  man  on  the  Indian  Pioneer  with  Mr.  Rud- 
yard  Kipling.  His  sister  married  an  Englishman, 
Henry  Soutar.  She  with  her  husband  and  children 
were  handsomely  ransomed  by  the  English  Govern- 
ment from,  I  believe,  Bulgarian  brigands,  when  Mr. 
'Gladstone  was  Prime  Minister.  There  was  a  touch- 
ing story  connected  with  this:  one  of  the  brigands 
walked  back  for  many  miles  to  find  a  doll  the 
youngest    child  had  dropped.  .  .  . 

4t  *  ^  ^  ^ 

Aunt  Stella  eloped  when  she  was  sixteen  with  a 
well-known  Bavarian  artist,  Alexander  Svoboda. 
My  grandfather  would  not  tolerate  this  love  affair, 
and  he  must,  I  think,  have  locked  her  into  a  room, 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS         7 

for  we  were  told  she  escaped  by  climbing  up  the 
wide  chimney  of  a  Moorish  house,  her  sisters  help- 
ing her  to  drag  up  a  box  by  a  rope,  I  take  it  she 
was  successfully  helped  down  into  the  street,  where 
Svoboda  was  waiting  for  her.  .  .  . 

Svoboda  was  always  painting  my  Aunt  Stella;  es- 
pecially her  feet,  which  were  very  lovely.  The  mar- 
riage was  not  happy;  Svoboda  was  intensely  jealous. 
Aunt  Stella  had  a  bird,  which  she  used  to  feed  from 
her  lips.  One  day  this  infuriated  Svoboda,  who,  in 
a  fit  of  jealousy,  wrung  the  bird's  neck  before  her 

My  Aunt  Stella  died  at  twenty-nine,  leaving  be- 
hind her  just  this  little  sequence:  her  beauty,  her 
young  love,  her  escape  up  the  chimney,  her  bird 
killed  to  spite  her,  and  her  early  death. 

I  was  named  after  her;  and  I  wish  I  could  give 
the  mysterious  impression  this  little  history  made 
upon  my  childish  thoughts. 

*^  jle-  sk-  .ife 

^*  *F  1*  rf* 

My  Aunt  Theresa,  a  light-hearted,  merry  girl, 
married  an  English  lawyer,  who  piously  on  his  wed- 
ding night  knelt  on  the  bed  to  pray.  The  gay 
Theresa,  irritated  by  prayers  said  in  such  a  way  at 
such  a  time,  pushed  him  ofif  the  bed  onto  the  floor. 
Her  wedding  night  was  spent  in  tears.  .  .  . 

A  year  or  two  afterwards  my  uncle  took  his  adored 
young  wife  and  child  home  to  England.  She  caught 
a  chill  on  the  voyage,  and  within  a  few  days  she  and 


8         MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

her  baby  died   at  the   Buckingham   Palace   Hotel. 

Of  Aunt  Angela,  I  know  only  that  she  married  a 
certain  Mr.  Henry  Lacey,  the  son  of  an  English 
clergyman.  Aunt  Carolina  married  a  Scotchman, 
Captain  Gunn  Eraser. 

Aunt  Dora,  my  youngest  aunt,  married  a  Mr. 
James  Vere  Cumins.  When  I  met  this  uncle  in 
America  for  the  first  time  a  few  years  ago,  I  saw 
an  unusually  handsome  man,  with  a  pointed  beard 
and  blue  eyes.  As  a  youth  he  had  great  expectations : 
this  he  could  never  forget.  He  worked  hard  to  sup- 
port my  Aunt  Dora,  a  hearty,  handsome  woman, 
who  sang  well  and  adored  her  five  children.  My 
uncle  and  aunt  are  both  dead,  but  their  children  are 
still  living  in  Texas. 


Which  of  my  aunts  it  was  who  had  a  tame  crow 
that  used  to  fly  into  the  woods  and  when  she  clapped 
her  hands  return  to  her,  I  do  not  know:  or  which 
aunt  sold  her  monkey  for  a  basketful  of  pistachio 
nuts.  I  was  told  she  pulled  the  monkey  by  its  tail 
into  her  window,  thinking  he  was  falling,  and  he 
never  forgave  her  the  indignity.  This  she  could  not 
bear,  so  she  sold  him  for  a  large  basket  of  her  favour- 
ite nuts.  Her  sisters  refused  to  share  them  with  hei ; 
and  the  story  that  she  ate  them  all  herself  in  defiance 
and  became  ill,  I  could  always  understand. 


My  father's  eldest  sister,  Aunt  Emily,  married 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS         9 

Baron  von  Jasmund — closely  related  to  the  Imperial 
House  of  Hapsburg.  The  story  that  has  come  down 
to  us  about  this  gentleman  is  rather  mysterious.  I 
give  it  for  what  it  is  worth: — 

Aunt  Emily  eloped  from  a  school  in  England 
where  Baron  von  Jasmund  was  a  professor.  In  time 
my  grandfather  forgave  this  marriage.  They  lived 
in  London  and  entertained  largely.  I  heard  that  for 
a  season  they  took  Dorchester  House,  and  my  eldest 
brother  and  sister  remember  playing  with  their  Ger- 
man cousins  on  the  great  staircase.  Von  Jasmund 
and  his  wife  and  family  eventually  went  to  America. 

Many  years  afterwards,  when  I  was  acting  in 
America,  two  young  men  called  to  see  me,  and 
claimed  cousinship — Mortimer  and  Wasa  von  Jas- 
mund. Later  I  met  their  charming  and  pretty  sister, 
Hildegarde,  and  their  youngest  brother,  Seymour. 

I  cannot  resist  quoting  from  letters  written  by 
Hildegarde,  after  our  meeting,  to  my  Uncle  Harry. 
They  show  she  inherited  a  fine  sensibility  from  her 
mother: 

"  'Brainerd,' 

"Minn. 
"January  25th,  1902. 
"My  dear  Uncle, 

"You  will  experience  surprise,  I  am  sure,  at  a  com- 
munication from  me,  but  as  I  am  your  very  own  niece 
I  feel  that  I  can  take  the  liberty.  My  delight  at  hear- 
ing from  a  real  live  uncle  was  unbounded.  To  think  that 
after  a  lapse  of  so  many  years,  years  of  hoping,  longing, 
waiting,  we  should  at  last  find,  in  a  most  unexpected  and 


lo       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

unforeseen  way,  some  of  my  dear  mother's  people.   .   .   . 

"How  many  times  during  these  long  years  we  have 
wondered  about  you  all.  We  have  written  many  letters, 
but  it  was  impossible  to  find  any  of  you.  All  that  we 
knew  was  that  mother  had  two  brothers,  John  and  Fred, 
and  this  information  we  obtained  from  some  old  pictures. 
You  who  have  had  your  friends  and  family  about  you 
cannot  conceive  what  it  means  for  four  helpless,  mother- 
less children,  with  an  irresponsible  father,  to  be  dropped 
in  a  strange  land  with  absolutely  no  one  to  look  after 
them.  Thanks  to  a  most  merciful  Providence,  we  fell  in 
good  hands,  and  received  the  best  care  and  kindest  treat- 
ment, and  all  the  advantages  it  was  possible  for  our  new 
friends  to  give  us.   .   .   . 

"Write  to  me  of  my  dearest  mother.  Do  not  hesitate 
for  fear  of  hurting  my  feelings.  I  feel  that  her  only  re- 
gret at  dying  must  have  been  parting  with  her  chil- 
dren. ,.   .   . 

"Most  affectionately, 

"HiLDEGARDE  VON  J,   CoURTNEY 

"(nee  von  Jasmund)." 

"February  nth,  1903. 
"My  dear  Uncle  Harry, 

"My  meeting  with  Beatrice*  was  a  most  pleasant  oc- 
casion for  me.  I  reached  Chicago  on  Saturday,  and 
went  alone  to  the  matinee.  The  first  vision  I  had  of 
Beatrice  was  as  she  entered  the  stage  as  'Magda.'  It 
was  one  of  loveliness.  I  was  charmed,  delighted!  .  .  . 
Her  chief  charm  lies,  to  me,  in  her  sweet  unaffectedness 
and  that  air  of  exquisite  refinement.  .  .  .  Seeing  her, 
brought  back  strange  and  sad  memories.  Memories  of 
that  dear  mother,  whose  love  I  have  always  missed  so 
sorely,  and  I  wept  through  the  entire  performance.     I 

*My  family  always  called  me  Beatrice. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       ii 

was  unfit  to  go  out  in  the  evening,  so  did  not  see  her  in 
The  Joys  of  Living,  very  much  to  my  regret.  I  saw 
her  in  all  her  other  plays.  ...  I  am  doubly  anxious 
to  see  you  all  after  hearing  Beatrice  talk  of  you.  She 
spoke  most  lovingly  and  tenderly  of  you,  dear  uncle,  and 
I  know  you  must  be  the  nicest  and  noblest  of  men.  .  .  . 
I  am  glad  you  could  see  a  little  resemblance  to  mother 
in  my  picture.  I  have  always  thought  the  lower  part  of 
my  face  was  like  her.  I  am  5  ft.  5  in.  in  height  Was 
mother  as  tall?  .  .  ." 

Extract  from  letter  written  by  my  Uncle  Harry  to 
Seymour  von  Jasmund. 

"23,  Glebe  Place, 

"Chelsea. 
"26th  October,  1902. 
"My  dear  Seymour, 

"Immediately  on  receipt  of  your  letter  of  6th  instant, 
I  wrote  to  a  cousin  of  ours,  Mrs.  Hogarth;  who  is 
about  77  years  old,  and  she,  when  we  were  children,  took 
care  of  us  after  our  mother's  death.  She  lives  at  some 
distance  out  of  London.  ...  I  thought  she  might  be 
able  to  give  me  some  information  in  answer  to  the  ques- 
tions contained  in  your  letter.     She  replied: 

"  'I  have  been  locking  over  some  papers  I  have  not 
seen  for  years,  and  am  pleased  to  say  I  came  upon  a  copy 
of  poor  Emily's  marriage  certificate,  with  other  papers 
relating  to  the  Baron,  which  I  should  like  you  to  see.' 

"These  documents  she  has  now  handed  to  me.  They 
consist  of: 

"i.  Copy  of  Marriage  Certificate,  185 1. 

"2.        Do.        Document  (written  in  German). 

"3.        Do.  Do.  Do.  1851. 


12       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

"4.       Do.  Do.  Do.  1 85 1. 

"5.  Letter  written  by  your  father  to  his  father-in- 
law.   .   .  .    nth  January,   1852,  St.  Goarshausen. 

"  'I  wish  to  forward  the  above  to  one  of  you,  and,  as 
I  don't  know  Wasa's  whereabouts,  I  will  send  them  to 
your  brother  Mortimer,  who,  I  suppose,  has  the  first 
right  to  them  next  to  Wasa.'  " 

The  following  is  a  copy  of  the  christening,  certificate  of 
Seymour  von  Jasmund,  the  youngest  child,  who  was  born 
in  Canada: 

"Seymour  Theodore  Algernon  Wasa  von  Jasmund, 
born  at  Mooretown,  Ontario,  September  3rd,   1864. 

"Son  of  Charles  Albert  Theodore  and  Emily  Mathilda 
Rebecca  von  Jasmund. 

"Baptised  at  the  City  Hotel,  St.  Clair,  Michigan,  on 
December  24th,  1864,  by  Rev.  B.  J.  Prichard. 
"Sponsors  (by  Proxy)  : 
"Henry  Stuart  Wortley. 
"Lady  Jane  Muncaster. 
"Capt.  Alfred  Drummond. 
"England." 

'Ss  *  *  ^ 

I  remember  my  beloved  mother  first  when  I  was 
about  three  years  old — tall,  pale,  dressed  in  black, 
with  long,  white,  delicate  hands.  I  fancy  she  was 
mourning  my  eldest  brother,  who  had  died  suddenly 
at  school,  and  two  loved  sisters  she  had  lost.  My 
father  was  away  in  India. 

My  earliest  recollection  is  of  her  walking  up  and 
down  a  long  room,  and  I  walking  close  behind  her, 
feeling  very  proud  to  be  following  her  up  and  down 
that  long  room. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS        13 

When  my  mother  sang  to  me  I  listened  under  an 
enchantment. 

She  gave  me  her  great  love  of  beauty.  She  could 
not  pass  beauty  by  unnoticed.  .  .  . 

I  never  heard  her  laugh  or  saw  her  gay.  I  re- 
member no  bitterness  or  harsh  speaking,  but  I  know 
now  what  as  a  child  I  could  not  guess;  sorrow  had 
silenced  the  song  of  life  in  her. 

Italian  women  differ  from  Englishwomen  in  their 
reserve:  in  the  Southern  heart  there  is  no  chill,  how- 
ever great  the  suffering. 

My  father  in  these  early  days  I  do  not  recall.  I 
neither  remember  being  caressed  by  him  nor  having 
any  sense  of  his  love  for  me;  my  whole  adoration 
was  for  my  mother. 

I  remember,  when  I  was  a  very  young  girl,  talk- 
ing to  her  about  some  new  acquaintances  with  whom 
she  did*  not  wish  me  to  be  intimate — people  who 
were  odd,  noisy,  vulgar,  rich,  full  of  gaiety  and 
high  spirits.  They  fascinated  me,  though  in  some 
strange  way  they  ofifended  my  taste.  I  remember 
my  mother  listening  gravely  for  some  time  to  my 
questions,  and  then  saying  gently:  "We  have  an 
Italian  proverb — 'Only  the  sweep  knows  what  is  up 
the  chimney.'  " 

From  my  mother  I  learnt  my  love  of  music. 
Schubert  was  my  first  love.  She  sang  his  songs 
in  French  with  a  touching  unsentimental  simplic- 
ity. 


14       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

Dante  and  Tasso,  and  Ariosto,  together  with  her 
Bible,  were  always  by  her  bed. 

After  her  death  I  found  these  few  lines  translated 
from  Dante  in  her  handwriting: — 

"When  the  leaves  are  falling  and  thou  are  come 
"To  seek  my  cross  in  Camposanto.  .  .  . 
"In  a  -humble  corner  thou  wilt  find  it, 
"And  many  flowers  near  it  born.   .   .  . 
"•Gather  thou,  then,  for  thy  fair  tresses 
"The  flowers  born  of  my  heart  .  .  .  they  are 
"The  songs  I  thought,  but  did  not  write.   .   .  . 
"The  words  of  love  I  did  not  tell  thee." 

My  mother  spoke  to  me  with  enthusiasm  of  the 
Italian  actors,  Salvini,  Rossi,  and  Madame  Ristori; 
also  of  the  singers,  Mario  and  Grisi  and  Adelina 
Patti.  I  do  not  think  she  ever  saw  any  of  our  Eng- 
lish players;  if  she  did,  I  never  heard  her  speak  of 
them. 

She  loved  her  children  and  her  grandchildren. 
Not  a  flower  or  a  colour,  not  a  sound,  line  or  move- 
ment that  had  loveliness  escaped  her.  She  loved 
animals,  especially  horses,  birds,  and  dogs;  so  life 
must  have  given  her  joy:  but  the  impression  she  has 
left  upon  me  is  one  of  abiding  melancholy  and  beauty. 
Her  religion  was  simple,  "simple  as  truth's  simplic- 
ity."    She  was  a  Roman  Catholic. 

My  father  was  a  cheerful  believer  in  the  Darwin- 
ian theory. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS        15 

I  remember  a  story  my  mother  told  me  about  an 
Arab  horse  she  used  to  ride  in  the  Row:  hearing  the 
music  of  a  regimental  band  passing,  the  horse  began 
to  lie  down  and  try  to  roll  over.  My  mother  kept 
her  seat,  and  the  people  who  were  standing  by,  watch- 
ing, said  under  their  breath:  "Circus  rider."  She 
smiled  as  she  told  me  this  story,  and  thrilled  me  with 
the  idea  that  the  horse  must  have  been  a  performing 
horse  that  had  learnt  to  bow  or  dance  to  music,  and 
perhaps  roll  over  "dead"  at  some  given  cue. 

'^'  'i^'  Vf!  "Tf*  ^P 

I  remember  clearly  my  first  grief.  There  was  a 
children's  party  given  by  my  father — a  Christmas 
tree  with  a  lovely  fairy  doll  holding  a  golden  sceptre 
in  her  hand,  and  with,  what  appeared  to  me,  a  dia- 
mond crown  upon  her  head,  standing  on  the  tips 
of  her  toes,  with  stars  all  about  her  and  lights — 
lights  everywhere — and  toys  of  all  descriptions  and 
colours  hanging  everywhere  beneath  her  feet. 

At  the  foot  of  the  tree  were  large  crackers — bigger 
than  I — and  I  was  told  that  inside  these  crackers 
were  dresses,  kings'  dresses,  queens'  dresses,  princes' 
and  princesses'.  A  band  playing.  Crowds  of 
people  and  children  and  I,  wild  with  excitement, 
looking,  wondering  whether  I  would  have  the  dress 
of  a  queen  or  a  princess. 

Then  someone  brought  me  one  of  the  large  crack- 
ers and  said  it  was  mine.     I  put  my  arms  around 


i6       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

it,  and  whispered:  "What  is  inside?"  And  the 
answer,  I  know,  was  "A  cook's  dress,"  and  I  wept 
and  wept  and  wept. 

I  remember  no  more  about  the  Christmas  party, 
only  that  I  was  in  a  room  alone.  Someone  had 
grown  tired  of  telling  me  to  "stop  crying,"  "not  to 
be  a  silly  little  girl."  I  was  full  of  shame,  and  my 
vain  little  heart  was  broken. 

My  youngest  brother  was  only  ten  months  older 
than  I,  and  we  were  always  in  the  nursery  together. 
He  was  a  sad  and  nervous  child,  delicate  and  silent. 
He  used  to  sit  in  a  corner  making  small  bags  out  of 
little  pieces  of  cloth  our  nurse  gave  him.  His  aloof- 
ness teased  me;  my  noise  and  energy  teased  him;  and 
there  are  memories  of  tussles  and  trying  to  pull  out 
each  other's  hair. 

I  believe  I  used  to  cry  loud  and  long,  and  some- 
one told  me  that  when  I  was  a  few  months  old  my 
nurse  said  to  my  mother:  "She  is  not  a  baby;  she  is 
a  tiger."  The  nurse  had  lain  me  down  in  a  cup- 
board, so  that  my  mother  should  not  hear  my  screams. 
Perhaps,  though  still  in  long  clothes,  I  knew  my 
nurse  was  unintelligent. 

I  remember  no  more  of  these  early  years — the 
years  that  lie  between  three  and  nine  years  of  age — • 
but  those  things  which,  I  suppose,  all  children  suf- 
fer— sudden  strangeness,  shyness,  loneliness,  a  sense 
of  invisible  things  and  people,  fears  born  of  ignor- 
ant nurses'  warnings,  and  their  own  imaginings. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       17 

The  loving,  gentle  look  in  my  Uncle  Harry's  eyes 
remains  with  me  throughout  the  years. 

There  was  the  comforting  love  and  joy  found  in 
the  pets  about  the  house,  and  the  passionate  desire  to 
have  some  day  a  dog  of  my  own.  I  never  cared  for 
dolls. 


CHAPTER  II. 

I  THINK  I  was  neither  a  sweet,  amiable,  nor 
amenable  child.  I  was  physically  strong,  very 
affectionate,  imaginative,  but  temperamentally 
alien  to  those  around  me. 

I  believe  I  was  impatient  with  unintelligent  people 
from  the  moment  I  was  born:  a  tragedy — for  I  am 
myself  three-parts  a  fool.  .  .  . 

I  was  about  nine  years  old  when  my  parents  moved 
into  Tulse  Dale  Lodge,  a  house  situated  between 
Tulse  Hill  and  Dulwich.  The  place  belonged  to  a 
Miss  Bailey,  an  old  friend  of  my  mother.  It  was  a 
low,  grey  stone  house  with  a  porch,  standing  in  the 
middle  of  a  big  garden.  There  were  stables  and  a 
large  field  adjoining  with  some  fine  trees.  Inside 
the  house  were  long  low  rooms,  a  dining  room, 
library,  a  drawing  room  and  a  mysterious  room  al- 
ways kept  locked,  containing  things  belonging  to 
Miss  Bailey — a  place  of  shadows  in  my  memory. 

My  mother's  sister,  Aunt  Dora,  and  her  five  chil- 
dren, had  come  from  India  to  live  with  us,  her  hus- 
band in  the  meanwhile  having  gone  to  Mexico  to 
look  after  my  father's  interests  out  there  in  silver 
mines.  The  house  was  full  of  children.  These 
cousins  of  mine  I  fancy  had  been  spoiled  by  ayahs — 
we  were  a  strange  medley  of  bickering  brats,  and 

18 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS        19 

someone  called  me  the  "Ugly  Duckling,"  and  ugly 
I  believed  I  was. 

I  have  a  vague  recollection  of  my  eldest  sister 
being  proud  of  me  and  dressing  me  up  prettily. 
She  taught  me  my  notes  on  the  piano.  She  tells  me 
I  was  a  very  difficult  child  to  understand,  and  to 
this  day  her  attitude  is  one  of  bewilderment,  ques- 
tion and  concern.  A  tender-hearted  woman  and  a 
most  devoted  mother,  this  sister  of  mine. 

There  were  many  happy  days  spent  in  the  garden 
at  Tulse  Dale  Lodge;  my  favorite  amusement  was 
to  sit  alone,  high  up  in  a  tree,  talking  to  myself  and 
to  the  leaves — they  were  little  people  to  me — and 
my  friends. 

".  .  .  .  like  the  talking  of  the  trees 

And  voices  in  the  air  that  knew  my  name." 

An  especially  naughty  game  of  mine  was  to  dig 
a  hole,  fill  it  with  water,  unplait  my  long  black 
hair  and  sit  in  the  mud  bath.  I  called  it  a  "Roman 
Bath,"  inspired,  I  feel  sure,  by  my  mother  telling  me 
the  Ancient  Romans  taught  the  Ancient  Britons  to 
bathe.  One  day  when  an  admirer  of  my  elder  sis- 
ter called,  he  met  a  wild  dishevelled  child  covered 
thick  with  mud,  and  told  my  sister  of  the  extraor- 
dinary little  girl  he  had  seen  in  the  garden;  and  my 
sister  made  me  feel  much  ashamed  when  she  told  me 
how  I  had  disgraced  myself. 

There  was  a  day,  too,  when  I  sat  on  a  gate  watch- 


20       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

ing  Mr.  Gladstone,  who  was  profoundly  interested 
in  the  working  of  a  newly  invented  steam  saw  for 
cutting  down  trees. 

And  there  was  an  awful  day  when  I  dug  up  my 
pet  canary  that  had  died  and  I  had  wept  over;  and 
had  buried  carefully  in  cotton  wool  in  a  Bryant  and 
May's  matchbox.  I  longed  to  see  my  little  bird  once 
more.  I  fancy  that  I  had  expected  to  find  the  box 
empty,  that  he  had  gone  to  Heaven,  or  had  become 
a  fairy:  I  never  had  the  courage  to  tell  anyone  what 
I  found — the  blankness,  the  misery,  of  that  first 
sight  of  decay. 

And  then  there  was  lying  on  the  hay  in  the  sun, 
dreaming  I  was  carried  away  on  a  cloud  to  meet 
someone,  who  would  take  me  to  all  the  beautiful 
places  in  the  world. 

Strangers  terrified  me — ''the  people  behind  the 
door."  ''They  do  not  say  what  their  faces  say"  was 
a  remark  I  made  when  I  was  trying  to  explain  my 
terror  to  my  nurse.  True  to  this  day  it  is,  only 
now  their  interest  lies  in  the  enigma. 

The  desire  was  always  with  me  to  tell  a  secret. 
It  would  come  upon  me  suddenly  in  a  crowd.  I 
did  not  know  what  the  secret  was,  but  if  only  people 
would  stand  quite  still  and  listen,  then  I  would  know 
right  enough. 

How  many  years  afterwards  did  I  discover  that 
an  audience  inspires  and  strengthens,  and  that  to 
"hold  an  audience"  is  a  gift  from  God. 

At  ten  years  old  I  was  sent  to  school  at  Brighton. 


THE  FAITHFUL   UNCLE   HAKRY 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       21 

Nothing  remains  in  my  memory  but  a  dull  monotony. 
Governesses  that  made  me  feel  shy;  learning  that  I 
found  difficult;  and  the  stiffness  of  school  discipline 
that  hurt  my  sensitive  mind.  Walking  out  two  by 
two  had  tragically  depressing  effect  upon  me. 

I  was  full  of  strange  fancies,  too.  I  used  to  amuse 
myself  by  putting  pennies  furtively  in  odd  places, 
and  making  up  passionate  stories  to  myself  of  how 
beggars  would  find  them,  and  think  God  had  sent 
them  in  answer  to  their  prayers.  I  remember  not 
minding  that  I  was  scolded  for  lagging  behind — 
that  was  the  price  I  paid  for  my  dreams. 

Evidently  my  schoolmistress,  Miss  Blackmore 
thought  my  morbidity  was  due  to  physical  causes — 
temperament  was  scarcely  a  schoolmistress'  busi- 
ness— she  called  me  to  her  private  room  and  told  me 
I  needed  medicine,  and  I  must  be  a  good  girl  and 
take  it  without  any  fuss.  She  gave  me  a  grey  powder 
in  a  cup  of  coffee.  It  made  me  very  seriously  ill. 
My  father  was  sent  for,  and  I  remember  his  coming 
up  to  my  bedroom.  His  face  was  so  serious,  I 
thought  he  was  cross  with  me,  and  I  was  very  un- 
happy. I  learned  long  afterwards  that  my  eldest 
brother  had  died  at  school  after  a  few  days'  illness 
at  the  age  of  twelve. 

I  have  a  sinister  remembrance  that  when  I  was  a 
child  I  often  thought  grown-up  people  silly,  and 
their  voices  ugly  and  their  movements  ungraceful: 
when  people  had  beautiful  speaking  voices,  or  lovely 
manners,  I  was  their  slave. 


22       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

Once  in  the  holidays  a  cousin  came  to  see  us  with 
her  very  young  baby.  1  had  never  seen  such  a  little 
baby  before.  I  begged  to  be  allowed  to  hold  her, 
and  someone  said,  "If  you  drop  her,  it  will  kill 
her,  but  if  you  sit  on  the  ground  I  will 
put  her  on  your  lap."  I  sat  down  and  the  baby 
was  put  on  my  lap,  I  remember  quite  well  the  sick- 
ening fear  and  giddiness  that  came  over  me  as  I 
held  the  little  bundle.  I  realized  with  overpower- 
ing tenderness  the  tragedy  that  had  been  suggested  to 
iTiy  mind.  "The  child  is  fainting,"  I  heard  my 
mother  say,  "None  of  you  understands  how  sensitive 
Beatrice  is."  I  was  made  to  lie  down  on  a  bed, 
and  I  was  haunted  miserably  by  a  feeling  that  there 
was  something  queer  about  me. 

There  is  a  tragic  memory,  too,  of  an  old  nurse, 
Fanny,  who  left  us  when  I  was  old  enough  to  go  to 
school.  I  used  to  think  of  her  with  great  love  and 
longing,  often  crying  myself  to  sleep.  In  the  holi- 
days she  came  to  see  us,  and  she  did  not  recognise 
me —  "Surely  this  big  girl  isn't  Miss  Beatrice?" 
were  her  respectful  words,  instead  of  a  hug  and  a 
kiss,  and  a  jump  into  her  lap.  She  did  not  know 
me,  and  I  knew  her  so  well,  and  I  loved  her  so  much. 
The  pain  I  suffered  at  the  sudden  baffling  of  my  joy 
is  indescribable. 

A  year  or  two  later,  wretched  terms  were  spent 
in  a  school  at  Hampstead.  The  mistress  had  cold 
blue  eyes  that  stared  at  me — whether  in  admiration  or 
disgust  it  was  difficult  for  me  to  tell.     She  either 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       23 

painted  or  wore  false  eyebrows,  which  made  her  face 
funny  to  me.  I  know  I  was  afraid  to  look  at  her — 
that  I  would  have  to  laugh,  and  then  she  would 
frighten  me.  When  she  took  the  class  and  asked 
me  a  question,  my  mind  became  a  blank.  I  do  not 
remember  learning  anything  at  this  school,  or  mak- 
ing any  school  friends. 

I  recollect  one  of  the  governesses  was  very  kind 
to  me;  a  grey  haired  woman,  with  a  small,  sad,  tight 
.face,*and  an  expression  that  never  changed.  I  asked 
her  once  if  she  had  a  sister,  and  she  answered  sol- 
emnly, "Yes,  and  her  beauty  was  her  curse."  This 
answer  filled  me  with  awe,  and  for  a  long  while 
gravely  troubled  me. 

Later  from  Tulse  Dale  Lodge  my  eldest  sister 
Nina  married;  and  soon  afterwards  my  father,  with 
my  two  brothers  and  my  Aunt  Dora  and  her  children, 
went  to  America  to  join  my  uncle  in  Texas.  My 
mother,  with  my  sister  Lulo  and  myself,  moved  into 
a  small,  rather  nice  little  house  in  Dulwich  taken 
by  my  Uncle  Harry;  and  Miss  Catherine  Bailey, 
my  mother's  friend,  came  back  from  Paris  to  her 
house,  Tulse  Dale  Lodge. 

Miss  Bailey — "Aunt  Kate,"  as  I  afterwards  called 
her — attracted  me  strangely.  She  was  an  old  spin- 
ster lady  nearly  seventy  years  of  age — I  wa'S  not  yet 
fifteen — the  tallest  and  thinnest  person  I  had  ever 
seen,  with  a  very  yellow  wrinkled  face  and  an  austere 
manner.  But  in  her  youth  she  had  been  an  inti- 
mate friend  of  Lord  Byron  and  Tom  Moore.      She 


24       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

had  seen  ladies  swoon  with  excitement  when  Lord 
Byron  appeared  at  a  party! 

Aunt  Kate  had  a  pretty  apartement  at  34,  Avenue 
de  Villers,  opposite  the  Pare  Monceau.  She  took  a 
great  interest  in  me,  and  begged  my  mother  to  let  her 
take  me  to  Paris  to  live  with  her  for  a  year,  and  to 
have  lessons  in  music  and  French. 

My  father's  financial  troubles  had  gradually  crip- 
pled him-,  so  this  chance  for  me  to  "finish  my  edu- 
cation," which  indeed  had  not  yet  begun,  came  as 
a  great  boon  to  my  mother. 

Being  at  a  most  impressionable  age,  the  love  I  had 
for  grace  and  distinction-  developed  here,  where  a 
little  coterie  of  French  and  Italian  people  constantly 
came  to  visit  her.  Aunt  Kate's  sister  had  married 
General  Count  van  de  Meer,  a  distinguished  gentle- 
man, who  had  played  a  courageous  part  in  the  Com- 
mune troubles.  There  was  Marie  van  de  Meer,  his 
lovely  daughter,  and  Count  Charles  van  de  Meer 
and  his  beautiful  Russian  wife,  Wanda,  and  their 
little  girl  of  three,  and  pretty  Countess  Alice  van  de 
Meer,  and  many  others  whom  I  forget.  And  then 
there  was  Aunt  Kate's  favourite  nephew,  with 
a  waxed  moustache,  Charles  de  Lorilli,  a  Manager 
in  Mr.  Rothschild's  Bank.  He  used  to  dine  with 
her  almost  every  night. 

I  had  a  governess  to  teach  me  French  and  another 
to  give  me  music  lessons,  and  I  think  I  was  taken 
to  every  gallery  and  museum  in  Paris. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       25 

I  can  only  remember  going  to  a  theatre  once.  It 
was  to  see  Pailleron's  Le  Monde  ou  Von  s'ennuie.  It 
was  as  though  some  unexpected  door  opened,  and  for 
months  afterwards  my  thoughts  gazed  beyond. 
Strangely  enough  Aunt  Kate  never  took  me  to  a  thea- 
tre again. 

People  used  to  stare  at  me  out-of-doors,  and  I  re- 
member feeling  rather  uncomfortable  about  my 
long  black  plaits.  One  day  a  man  in  passing  us 
pushed  a  ticket  for  a  box  at  the  opera  in  my 
glove.  I  shall  never  forget  Aunt  Kate's  face  as  she 
called  him  "Si»nge"  and  hailed  a  fiacre.  I  did 
not  know  whether  to  laugh,  or  cry.  She  would 
not  speak  to  me:  I  felt  somehow  that  I  was  to 
blame. 

I  stayed  in  Paris  a  year,  getting  to  know  a  little 
about  music,  and  always  enjoying  the  novelty  of  the 
slightly  artificial  atmosphere  of  Aunt  Kate's  circle, 
where  an  ugly  retort  or  an  uncomplimentary  truth 
would  have  been  a  breach  of  good  manners.  There 
was  an  atmosphere  of  romance  about  it  all  that  filled 
me  with  delight.  I  fancy,  though,  what  pleased  me 
most  was  Aunt  Kate's  vivid  manner  of  telling  mc 
stories  of  her  youth,  and  of  people  she  had  known. 
Her  eyes  would  sparkle — and  she  had  wonderful 
dramatic  gestures  with  her  large  Scotch  hands, 
that  impressed  and  thrilled  me.  When  she  told  me 
a  love  story,  she  used  to  murmur  "Oh's"  and  "Ah's," 
turning  her  eyes  upwards  in  a  most  mysterious  fash- 


26       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

ion.  Some  sad  story  had  surely  left  dear  Aunt  Kate 
a  spinster. 

When  I  was  sixteen  Aunt  Kate  brought  me  back 
to  my  mother. 

By  this  time  my  father  was  definitely  ruined. 
My  youngest  brother  Edmund  had  come  back  from 
America.  This  brother,  whom  we  had  always  called 
"Max,"  had  a  genius  for  music,  chess  problems  and 
figures. 

My  dear  Uncle  Harry's  fortune  had  melted  away 
in  the  general  ruin.  He  got  some  work  in  the  City, 
and  took  the  burden  of  my  mother,  my  sister,  my 
brother  and  myself  upon  him.  I  had  always  loved 
my  Uncle  Harry.  As  a  small  child  he  was  the  one 
who  never  frightened  me,  or  made  me  shy;  whose 
eyes  looked  at  me  with  love  and  understanding. 
Whenever  I  saw  him,  I  used  to  go  close  to  him  and 
hold  his  hand,  and  he  said  lovely  things  that  made 
children  laugh  and  feel  happy.  His  face  was  dis- 
figured by  smallpox,  but  we  children  thought  him 
very  handsome,  and  used  to  quarrel  among  ourselves 
as  to  which  one  of  us  would  marry  him  when  we  grew 
up.  He  was  a  great  reader,  a  student  of  literature 
of  all  kinds:  Italian,  French,  and  Latin  were  a  hobby 
with  him. 

When  I  returned  from  Paris,  I  developed  a  pas- 
sion for  reading,  and  my  mother  allowed  me  to  turn 
a  little  box  room  into  a  study.  There  were  some 
rapturous  hours  spent  alone  in  that  little  room, 
writing  out  what  I  particularly  loved,  and  making 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       27 

notes  of  what  I  did  not  understand.  It  was  a  strange 
medley  of  my  uncle's  books  that  I  took  into  that 
roam: — J.  W.  Cross'  ''Life  of  George  Eliot,"  Lewes' 
"Life  of  Goethe,"  Thackeray's  "English  Humorists 
of  the  Eighteenth  Century,"  "Corinne,"  Walt  Whit- 
man, Keats,  Longfellow,  Emerson,  Shakespeare, 
Milton,  Tennyson,  Daudet,  Balzac,  and  many  others. 

When  uncle  returned  from  the  City  in  the  evening, 
we  would  go  through  what  I  had  read,  and  he  with 
his  gentle  fun  was  always  ready  to  make  difficult 
things  easy  and  amusing. 

I  asked  him  once:  "What  is  Heaven  really?  I 
know  it  isn't  a  place  in  the  sky  behind  the  clouds." 
He  thought  for  a  long  time:  looking  beyond  me, 
he  answered  "Faithfulness." 

Our  long  evenings  at  home  were  spent  either  at 
the  piano  or  playing  chess,  or  listening  to  my  mother 
singing  to  her  guitar,  or  to  my  uncle  reading  aloud. 
We  talked  a  lot  of  nonsense,  too.  He  was  wise  and 
witty  and  listened  with  grave  eyes  full  of  affection. 

I  think  he  knew  there  was  something  in  my  heart 
I  could  not  speak,  and  he  wondered  what  outlet 
I  would  find.  We  loved  arguments  and  discussions, 
and  there  were  always  beloved  cats  and  dogs  and 
other  pets. 

On  my  return  from  Paris,  a  cousin  of  my  father, 
Mrs.  Eliza  Hogarth,  a  woman  of  some  means,  heard 
me  play  the  piano,  and  offered  to  have  me  trained, 
so  it  was  arranged  that  I  should  go  to  the  Guildhall 
School  of  Music  twice  a  week,  from  Dulwich,  for 


28       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

my  lesson.  After  the  second  term  my  Music  Master 
suggested  that  I  should  go  in,  with  365  other  girls, 
for  a  scholarship,  which  would  give  me  three  years 
free  musical  tuition  in  Leipzig.  I  won  the  scholar- 
ship :  why  I  never  took  it  up  belongs  to  another  chap- 
ter. 

The  following  letter  from  my  Music  Master,  Mr. 
Ridley  Prentice,  shows  that  I  had  a  little  musical 
talent: — 

"Kensington  Square,  W., 
September  25th,  1882. 
"My  dear  Madam, 

"I  much  regret  to  find  from  your  daughter.  Miss  Bea- 
trice Tanner,  that  she  will  leave  the  Guildhall  School 
of  Music  at  the  half  term.  Personally,  I  shall  be  very 
sorry  to  lose  her  as  a  pupil,  as  she  is  much  interested  in 
her  work,  has  great  talent,  and  makes  rapid  progress. 

"But  I  feel  that,  quite  apart  from  my  personal  feeling, 
it  is  my  duty  to  let  you  know  what  a  very  serious  thing  it 
seems  to  me  that  Miss  Tanner  should  not  complete  her 
musical  education. 

"When  she  came  to  me,  she  had  never  had  any  regular 
musical  training  at  all,  and  there  was  much  to  undo  be- 
fore she  could  really  begin  to  make  sure  progress.  She 
has  now  got  over  that  first  difliculty,  and  there  is  nothing 
to  stop  her  from  becoming  really  a  fine  pianist  and  musi- 
cian— but  this  of  course  is  a  work  of  time  and  labour  and 
cannot  be  accomplished  all  at  once. 

"I  have  no  hesitation  in  saying  that  she  has  a  very 
great  talent  indeed,  and  that  if  she  works  in  a  proper 
spirit,  and  is  properly  directed,  she  is  sure  of  attaining  a 
very  high  position.     It  seems  to  me,  therefore,  that  it 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       29 

would  be  a  wrong  thing  if  such  talent  were  not  to  be  pro- 
perly developed,  especially  as  in  the  present  day  no  one 
has  any  chance  of  success  who  has  not  attained  the  high- 
est possible  point. 

"You  will  see  that  I  look  on  the  matter  as  a  musician, 
doubtless  there  are  many  other  different  considerations 
which  must  weigh  with  you,  but  I  trust  that  you  will 
pardon  my  writing  strongly.  It  is  not  too  often  that  one 
meets  with  real  talent,  so  that  it  is  all  the  more  sad  when 
there  seems  to  be  a  prospect  of  its  being  wasted. 

"Perhaps  I  may  be  allowed  to  add  that  the  very  great 
pains  which  I  have  taken  with  Miss  Tanner  give  me  a 
right  to  speak. 

"Believe  me,  Dear  Madam, 

"Yours  sincerely, 

"Ridley  Prentice." 

During  these  two  years  of  my  life  at  Dulwich  only 
a  fev^  friends  stand  out  of  the  shadows,  amongst 
them  Mrs.  Gifford,  her  son,  and  two  beautiful  daugh- 
ters. The  eldest,  Maud,  now  Lady  Gallwey,  was 
my  first  girl  friend.  We  used  to  have  long  walks  and 
talks  together.  I  thought  her  beautiful;  she  was  in- 
terested in  my  year's  life  spent  in  Paris  and  in  my 
music.  She  had  a  lovely  figure;  was  always  well 
dressed,  and  had  heaps  of  admirers. 

Then  there  was  the  charming  Bowring  Spence, 
and  his  Italian  mother  and  sisters.  He  had  a  beau- 
tiful sympathetic  voice,  and  used  to  sing  Tosti's  early 
songs.  He  married  a  niece  of  the  Pope  and  be- 
came British  Consul  at  Leghorn. 

One  of  our  most  interesting  neighbors  was  Jim 


30       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

Bates  (Dr.  Curling  Bates),  a  very  gifted  fellow, 
whose  grandfather  had  been  an  intimate  friend  of 
Handel.  He  gave  me  Handel's  snufif-box,  which  I 
still  cherish.  Jim  Bates  *  was  a  good  musician, 
besides  being  an  excellent  amateur  actor,  and  he  was 
President  of  the  Anomalies  Dramatic  Club  where 
I  made  my  first  appearance  as  an  amateur  actress. 

Also  there  was  James  Nasmyth,  afterwards  Sir 
James  Nasmyth,  a  strange  creature,  a  friend  of  my 
musical  brother  Max. 

I  can  remember  no  gaiety  such  as  young  people 
have  today.  Ours  were  the  most  simple  of  pleasures, 
music,  card  parties,  country  walks,  cricket  matches 
and  concerts  at  the  Crystal  Palace. 

There  were  the  Urquhart  girls,  cousins  of  the  Gif- 
fords,  their  father  was  a  vicar  at  Bournemouth.  The 
third  daughter,  Owney,  a  lovely  gentle  girl  with 
a  fascinating  lisp,  very  many  years  afterwards,  mar- 
ried my  brother  Max. 

I  find  in  an  old  copy  book  the  following  poems  by 
my  uncle,  and  one  by  myself  written  at  fifteen: 

BEATRICE. 

HER  MOTTO 

VIVE  LA  BAGATELLE. 

"A  nobler  yearning  never  broke  her  rest 
Than  but  to  dance  and  sing,  be  gaily  drest, 

*  Lady  Burne-Jones,  who  once  saw  Dr.   Curling  Bates  act  at  Rotting- 
dean,  told  me  he  was  the  best  comedian  she  had  ever  seen. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       31 

And  win  all  eyes  with  all  accomplishment; 
For  ah,  the  slight  coquette,  she  cannot  love. 
And  if  you  kissed  her  feet  a  thousand  years 
She  still  would  take  the  praise  and  care  no  more." 

H.  W.  T. 

"IN  THEIR  RIGHT  PLACES." 

"The  Brewers  should  to  Malta  go, 
The  Boobys  all  to  Scilly, 
The  Quakers  to  the  Friendly  Isles, 
The  Furriers  to  Chili. 
The  naughty  little  squalling  babes 
That  break  our  nightly  rest. 
Should  be  packed  off  to  Babylon, 
To  Lapland  or  to  Brest. 
From  Spithead  Cooks  go  off  to  Greece, 
And  while  the  miser  waits 
His  passage  to  the  Guinea  Coast 
Spendthrifts  are  in  the  Straits. 
Let  Spinsters  to  the  Needles  go, 
Wine  bibbers  to  Burgundy, 
Send  gluttons  to  the  Sandwich  Isles, 
Wags  to  the  Bay  of  Fundy. 
Bachelors  to  the  United  States 
Maids  to  the  Isle  of  Man, 
Let  Gaideners  go  to  Botany  Bay, 
And  Shoe-blacks  to  Japan. 
Seek  out  all  other  misplaced  men. 
Lest  they  disturb  and  vex  us, 
And  all  who're  not  provided  for, 
And  send  them  off  to  Texas." 

H.  W.  T. 


32       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

TO  STELLA'S  EYES. 
SWEETEST  EYES  WERE  EVER  SEEN. 

'Love  hath  not  eyes  they  say, 
Tell  me,  is  that  e'en  soT 

Said  Stella,  one  glad  day 
To  her  fond  Angelo. 

Straightway  her  dear  replies, 
'By  heav'n  and  earth,  'tis  true; 

For  love's  enchanting  eyes 
Were  stolen,  sweet  by  you.'  " 

DAWN 

There  is  a  hushed  stillness  through  the  trees. 

Dawn  is  breaking. 
And  the  transient  night  wind  greeting  leaves 

The  Morn  awaking; 
It  stoops  to  tell  the  new-born  flowers 

Of  the  Sun. 
To  kiss  their  lips  with  dew-drop  dowers, 

Day  has  come. 
There  is  a  soft  note  of  the  nightingale 

Passing  away 
Into  the  sweetest  melody  to  hail 

The  break  of  day. 
Aurora  comes !  with  blushing  pride 

She  spreads  her  charms. 
Till  the  pale  night  gently  glides 

From  Neptune's  arms. 

Beatrice,  aged  15. 

Part  of  a  letter  I  find  written  to  a  cousin  many 
years  later  by  my  Uncle  Harry: 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       33 

".  .  .  During  my  life  I  have  seen  a  great  deal  of 
Beatrice  and  have  been  with  her  more  than  with  the 
others;  and  I  took  a  little  part  in  her  bringing  up,  for 
when  my  brother  John  went  away  to  Texas  with  his  two 
boys,  he  left  Lulo  and  Beatrice  under  my  care.  Some 
years  after,  when  Beatrice  had  married,  the  time  came 
when  her  husband  went  abroad  to  seek  his  fortune  in 
1887,  and  Beatrice,  a  year  or  two  later,  with  his  consent, 
took  up  the  stage  as  a  profession.  She  left  her  two 
dear  children  under  my  care.  They  remained  some 
years  in  my  house  along  with  their  grandmother,  so  my 
life  has  been  always  more  in  touch  with  Beatrice's,  and 
she  is  my  favourite.  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  III. 

AT  a  card  party  at  Mrs.  Gifford's  I  first  met 
my  future  husband,  Patrick  Campbell. 
His  father  had  been  manager  in  Hong 
Kong,  of  the  Chartered  Bank  of  India,  Australia,  and 
China.  He  now  owned  a  large  place,  "Belmont," 
Stranraer,  also  an  old-fashioned  house  with  lawns 
and  trees,  "Ellerslie,"  on  Sydenham  "Hill. 

I  was  seventeen  when  I  first  met  Pat:  he  was 
twenty,  and  had  just  left  Wellington.  His  brother, 
Alan  Campbell,  of  the  72nd  Highlanders,  had  dis- 
tinguished himself  at  Tel-el-Kebir. 

Pat  was  good-looking,  with  unusually  well-bred 
gentle  manners,  a  great  affection  for  his  home  and 
people,  and  a  passionate  love  for  his  dead  mother. 
His  father  had  married  again,  and  there  were  many 
step-children — all  were  dear  to  Pat. 

A  devoted  old  keeper  at  Belmont  had  taught 
him  the  names  of  birds  and  wild  flowers — a  black 
speck  in  the  sky,  I  could  scarcely  see,  had  its  name, 
its  character,  and  its  ways  for  Pat;  a  flower  that  to 
me  was  just  a  pretty  colour,  for  him  was  a  little  life 
with  its  family  and  its  home. 

Pat  managed  a  boat  like  a  magician.  I  remem- 
ber  a  wonderful    long   day   on    the   Thames.     Pat 

34 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       35 

looked  only  at  me — the  boat  went  without  effort  or 
sound,  quick  and  straight. 

In  the  locks  even  we  seemed  alone — he  spoke  little 
• — the  golden  glory  of  the  dawn  before  passion  is  born 
was  between  us — — 

We  picked  wild  flowers  together.  I  remember  a 
little  bird  flying  into  my  hand  and  Pat's  words, 
''Even  the  wild  birds  love  you." 

We  eloped  within  four  months  of  our  first  meet- 
ing and  were  married  at  St.  Helen's  Church,  Bish- 
opsgate  Street. 

One  thing  I  can  never  forget — my  mother's  face 
and  her  heartbroken  cry  when  I  told  her. 

After  more  than  thirty-five  years  of  life — with  its 
battles,  its  wounds,  its  every  ready  pain — it  is  not 
easy  to  write  of  the  joy  of  that  first  love. 

Incapable  of  pause  or  reckoning,  with  the  divine 
faith  and  courage  of  fearless  children,  we  faced 
the  world  we  thought  ours,  and  paid  the  price 
bravely. 

Slowly  to  me  came  the  awakening  that  the 
responsibility  of  the  two  children,  born  within 
three  years,  was  mine.  Pat,  who  had  never 
been  very  strong,  was  ordered  abroad  for  his 
health.  .  .  . 

I  can  remember  vividly  a  hot  summer  night.  The 
moon  shone  through  the  open  window  and  I  lay 
trying  to  see  into  the  future.  At  about  2  o'clock 
I  was  overcome  with  restless  anxiety,  I  slipped  out  of 


36       MY  LIFE  AND  SOiME  LETTERS 

bed,  taking  care  not  to  awaken  Pat,  and,  throwing 
on  a  wrap,  crept  downstairs  and  opened  the  door 
leading  to  a  narrow  garden. 

I  walked  up  and  down  that  little  garden,  now  and 
then  looking  up  at  the  window  of  the  rooms  where 
my  husband  and  little  son  were  asleep  until  daylight, 
thinking  and  wondering  what  was  to  be  done.  I 
knew  Pat  was  not  strong  enough  to  continue  work- 
ing in  the  city,  and  that  /  must  help.  I  could  not 
imagine  what  work  I  could  do. 

I  had  given  up  my  musical  scholarship,  and  so 
was  not  qualified  for  a  musical  career.  My  lovely 
baby,  and  another  coming  in  a  few  weeks,  must  be 
provided  for.     I  was  bewildered — lost. 

With  the  daylight  something  entered  my  soul,  and 
has  never  since  left  me — it  seemed  to  cover  me  like  a 
fine  veil  of  steel,  giving  me  a  strange  sense  of  security. 
Slowly  I  became  conscious  that  within  myself  lay 
the  strength  I  needed,  and  that  I  must  never  be  afraid. 

Was  it  the  birth  of  self-reliance — or  that  over- 
whelming spirit  "the  sense  of  responsibility"  beating 
against  my  heart — or  the  call  of  my  "secret?"^ — I 
cannot  say — I  know  I  crept  quietly  back  to  bed  in 
the  grey  light  of  the  morning  with  a  new  courage 
and  determination. 

Pat  was  earning  less  than  £ioo  a  year,  and  his 
delicate  health  was  alarming.  His  mother  had  died 
of  consumption  three  years  after  his  birth,  and  I 
fancy  this  preyed  on  my  mind.     The  failure  of  the 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       yj 

Old  Oriental  Bank  had  practically  ruined  my 
father-in-law.  .  .  . 

Then  my  girl  was  born — "a  little  queen,  with 
such  beautiful  hands,"  my  mother  said. 

About  two  months  later  I  was  suddenly  asked  by 
Jim  Bates  to  play  the  leading  part  at  the  Anomalies 
Dramatic  Club,  one  of  the  members  having  fallen 
ill.  I  felt  very  unhappy  and  uncertain.  The  idea 
seemed  to  terrify  me.  My  friends  said  it  would 
cheer  me  up,  and  amuse  me. 

Someone  had  fixed  in  my  mind  when  I  was  very 
young  that  Art  was  a  form  of  prayer,  and  I  could 
not  regard  it  is  an  amusement,  but  my  ridiculous 
seriousness  was  overcome  in  the  end  by  Pat,  who 
persuaded  me  to  accept. 

The  Anomalies  Dramatic  Club  was  composed  of 
365  members,  who  each  paid  a  subscription  of  £3  3s. 
a  year:  the  Club  gave  three  performances  every  year 
of  two  plays.  The  performances  took  place  in  the 
Town  Hall. 

This  extract  from  The  Stage  shows  that  I  met  with 
some  success.* 

Pat's  health  became  worse,  and  at  last  he  was 
ordered  by  the  doctor  to  take  a  sea  voyage.  It  was 
suggested  he  should  go  to  Brisbane,  where  a  relative 

*"ln  his  Poiver,  by  Mark  Quinton,  i8th  November,  1886.  The 
Anomalies  are  fortunate  in  counting  Mrs.  Campbell  as  one  of  their 
members.  It  was  this  lady's  first  appearance  on  any  stage  on  Thursday, 
and  her  performance  was  therefore  the  more  extraordinary.  Mrs. 
Campbell  possesses  a  natural  depth  of  pathos  and  yet  a  power  and 
earnestness,  which,  joined  to  a  graceful,  easy  manner  and  charming 
presence  render  her  a  most  valuable  acquisition." 


38       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

of  his,  William  Ross,  was  at  the  moment.  The 
thought  of  the  parting  was  misery  to  us  both,  but  the 
state  of  his  health  made  it  imperative.  It  was  ar- 
ranged, if  Pat  succeeded  in  finding  work,  the  chil- 
dren and  I  would  join  him. 

The  day  he  left,  my  sister  and  I  went  to  the  station 
to  see  him  off.  I  don't  know  how  it  happened,  but 
we  missed  him.  I  fainted.  Someone  in  nurse's 
uniform  lifted  my  head  and  gave  me  water.  I  can 
remember  well  the  agony  I  felt  as  I  realized  the 
tragedy  of  our  parting. 

The  following  telegram  is  among  my  old  pa- 
pers:— 

"5th  October,  1887. 
"Good-bye,  darling,  did  my  best  to  see  you.      Dare  not 
miss  another  train.     Perhaps  it  was  better. 

"Pat." 

Had  any  of  us  realised  the  sort  of  difficulties  a 
boy  of  Pat's  nature  would  have  to  encounter,  with  no 
capital  and  delicate  health,  we  would  never  have 
let  him  go  on  from  Brisbane  to  Sydney  and  then  on 
to  Mashonaland.  He  and  I  both  believed  with  the 
optimism  of  children  in  every  new  venture  he  under- 
took. I  was  sure  he  would  soon  make  enough  money 
to  send  for  me  and  the  children.  And  in  those  first 
years  our  dream  of  the  joy  of  reunion  gave  our  hearts 
courage. 

The  following  are  a  few  extracts  from  the  hun- 
dreds of  letters  Pat  wrote  to  me  during  the  six  and  a 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       39 

half  years  he  was  away.  The  world  has  invented 
many  strange  stories  about  me,  so  the  truth  of  our 
young  lives  and  struggle,  may  be  found  interesting. 

"Brisbane, 
"15th  December,  1887. 

"Fairly  good  news,  my  own,  own  darling.  I  have  got 
a  berth  in  the  B.  I.  Company's  office,  £2  a  week  to  com- 
mence with,  and  I  think  it  will  increase  soon.  I  started 
to  work  yesterday.  Some  of  the  fellows  seem  very  nice; 
the  hours  are  from  9  till  5.30.  It  isn't  very  much,  dar- 
ling, but  anyway  it  is  a  start. 

*'I  got  all  your  dear,  sweet  letters  to-day,  five  for- 
warded on  from  Aden  and  one  direct  to  Brisbane.  My 
darling,  do  you  know  what  these  letters  are  to  me?  .   .   . 

"The  old  Duke  of  Buccleuch  went  away  to-day.  It 
made  me  quite  sad  all  day.  They  would  willingly  have 
taken  me  back  to  England  with  them.  It  took  all  my 
strength  of  will  not  to  go.   .   .   . 

"Act  as  much  as  you  like.  I  know  you  love  me;  that 
is  enough.   .   .   ." 

After  Pat  left  England  I  played  again  with  the 
Anomalies  Dramatic  Company  in  Blow  for  Blow, 
and  The  Money  Spinner. 

"Brisbane, 
"8th  January,  1888. 
"...  Your  last  letter  telling  me  about  the  Governor 
agreeing  to  stand  security  for  the  rent  has  taken  a  great 
load  off  my  mind.  Oh,  darling,  it  is  awful  for  me  here 
to  think  of  all  the  worry  and  trouble  you  have  at  home. 
It  is  heart-breaking  to  think  of  the  long  time  it  will  be 
before  I  see  you  again.     I  try  and  keep  my  spirits  up, 


40       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

but  I  am  utterly  miserable  without  you.  .  .  .  Mr.  Wood- 
ward has  gone  away  prospecting  for  gold  with  two  other 
fellows  who  have  been  most  lucky.  He  has  promised 
to  let  me  know  at  once  if  they  find  anything  good. 
North  Queensland  seems  to  abound  in  gold;  they  find 
fresh  gold  every  day.   .  .  ." 

"Brisbane, 
"14th  January,    1888. 

"...  I  have  been  over  head  and  ears  in  work  all 
the  week,  darling,  and  really  have  not  had  time  to  write 
you  the  long  letter  I  promised. 

"I  have  sent  a  cheque  this  post  for  £29  15s.  6d.  (all 
I  can  get  together)  to  an  old  friend  in  Kimberley, 
Harold  Ingall,  asking  him  to  buy  a  demand  draft  for 
what  it  will  fetch,  payable  to  Mrs.  Stella  Campbell,  and 
send  it  on  to  you.  I  have  asked  him  to  try  and  send  it 
same  mail  as  this. 

"Grand  reports  every  day  about  gold.   . 


M 


"Brisbane, 
"21st  February,  1888. 
"My  own  darling, 

"I  have  been  laid  up  in  bed  for  the  last  ten  days  with  a 
touch  of  coloured  fever,  but  I  am  all  right  now,  only  it 
has  left  me  very  weak.  You  need  not  be  frightened,  the 
climate  seems  to  suit  me  splendidly.  They  say  most 
young  fellows  get  a  touch  of  fever  when  they  first  come 
out.   .   .   . 

"It  was  awful  work  being  laid  up  without  you  to  look 
after  me.  I  was  very  bad  for  three  days,  off  my  head 
altogether.  One  or  two  people  were  most  kind.  I  am 
rather  glad  I  have  had  it,  as  one  has  to  go  through  it, 
and  it  might  have  been  much  worse. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       41 

"Nothing  new  out  here,   .   .   ." 

Three  months  afterwards  he  wrote  :^ 

"Sydney, 
"17th  May,  1888. 


u 


"After  an  interval  of  three  mails  I  have  just  received 
your  sweet  letter  of  29th  March.  You  may  well  say 
I  seem  miserable.  I  am  always  being  haunted  by  the 
idea  that  you  will  learn  to  hate  me,  because  I  am  so  long 
in  helping  you  out  of  your  great  troubles  that  your  pa- 
tience and  goodness  cannot  last.   .   .   . 

"Should  I  by  any  chance  be  able  to  get  a  good  berth  at 
£35,  I  will  then  be  able  to  send  you  at  least  £20  a  month, 
and  then,  my  darling,  you  will  be  able  to  live  more  com- 
fortably. It  will  be  a  blessed  day  to  me  when  I  am 
able  to  write  and  send  you  the  first  regular  remittance, 
and  I  feel  sure  it  will  only  be  a  month  or  so  hence  now. 
You  will  think  I  am  wasting  time  staying  here,  but  there 
has  not  been  a  single  boat  going  to  Africa  yet. 

"What  a  pet  the  little  girl  must  be.  Do  try  and 
send  their  photos,  and,  my  own  wife,  send  me  one  of 
your  own.     I  want  that  above  everything.   .   .   ." 

"Mauritius, 
"28th  July,  1888. 
"I  feel  utterly  miserable.  I  have  been  stuck  here  for 
a  month,  no  possible  way  of  getting  on  to  Africa.  At 
last  we  are  going  to  start  in  the  Dunbar  Castle  to-day. 
I  have  no  heart  to  write  to  you.  My  money  has  given 
out,  and  I  am  obliged  to  draw  on  my  father  for  my  pas- 
sage from  here.  I  can't  help  it.  I  am  afraid  he  will 
be  wild,  but  it  is   the  only  thing  I   could  do.     I  have 


42       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

written  him  a  nice  letter,  and  I  will  pay  it  back  as  soon 
as  I  get  to  work.   .   .  . 

"Stella,  darling,  don't  get  disgusted  with  me.  God 
knows  I  have  done  my  best.  .  .  .  And  then,  of  course, 
I  have  had  no  word  from  the  time  I  left  Sydney  and  shall 
not,  perhaps  find  a  letter  when  I  get  to  Kimberley.  I 
do  hope  Kimberly  will  be  the  end  of  our  troubles. 

"I  cannot  write  more.  It  is  awful  to  be  the  means 
of  so  much  misery  to  you,  for  I  worship  you,  my  dar- 
ling. 

"God  bless  you  and  the  children. 

"Pat/' 

"Kimberley  Central   Diamond  Mining  Company,  Ltd., 

"Kimberley, 
"17th  September,  1888. 


(( 


"I  got  your  sweet  letter  on  Saturday  enclosing  the  one 
written  to  you  by  my  father.  I  am  writing  him  a  long 
letter  by  this  mail. 

"You  will  have  got  Ross's  cable  to  my  father  about  my 
billet  by  now.     I  do  hope,  my  darling,  it  was  a  comfort. 

"I  get  £300  a  year  to  start.  My  predecessor,  who  was 
only  five  months  In  the  Company,  and  then  lost  the  post 
through  drink,  got  a  rise  of  £50  at  the  end  of  three 
months.  I  do  hope  I  get  the  same.  Ross  thinks  I  will 
be  able  to  get  something  better  soon.  Things  are  very 
dull  just  now.     The  elections  are  on  next  month. 

"This  seems  a  splendid  place  for  making  money.  I 
do  hope  I  can  only  get  a  start.  I  know  Ross  will  put 
me  in  the  way  of  anything  good.   .   .   . 

"I  am  so  glad  to  know  that  the  acting  has  made  you 
happier.  .  .  . 

"Pat." 


-^^^ 


^i  ^^  •^.  '^^. 


♦>  ^.  ••  . 


"pat"    CAMPBELL 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       43 

Then  Pat  went  on  to  Mashonaland,  sometimes 
prospecting  with  hopes  of  concessions  and  settle- 
ments, and  later  I  heard  of  his  big  game  shooting  with 
Selous.     How  he  must  have  loved  that. 

Then  followed  many  weeks  and  no  letters,  and 
Pat  could  only  send  money  very  irregularly.  So  at 
last  it  was  decided  that  I  should  take  up  the  stage 
professionally,  and  I  wrote  asking  for  Pat's  per- 
mission. This  he  gave,  and  I  started  my  career.  I 
had  already  gained  some  experience  and  success  in 
my  performances  at  the  Anomalies  Dramatic  Club. 

"Central  Diamond  Mfg.  Coy., 

"Stockdale  Street, 

"Kimberley, 
"i2th  November,  1888. 
"My  own  Stella  wife, 

"I  received  your  sweet  letter  telling  me  of  your  re- 
hearsals, and  I  long  to  get  the  long  letter  next  week,  which 
you  have  promised  to  send  me,  telling  me  all  about  the 
first  performance,  and  I  do  hope  it  won't  knock  you 
up.   .   .  . 

"I  have  just  heard  of  a  billet  going  with  a  salary  of 
£500  a  year,  and  I  am  going  to  do  my  very  best  to  get  it. 

"My  life  here  is  very  monotonous,  but  I  am  getting  on 
very  well  in  this  office,  and  the  work  is  most  interesting; 
the  diamonds  are  simply  superb.  We  are  making  a 
collection  of  curious  ones  for  the  Paris  Exhibition. 
There  is  one  most  beautiful  stone,  the  palest  emerald 
green  and  very  fiery.  Some  jet  black  ones  which  sparkle 
splendidly;  others  amber-coloured,  orange,  pink,  yellow 
of  all  shades,  and  some  of  the  purest  water,  all  shapes 
and  all  sizes.     One  is  shaped  just  like  a  man's  head; 


44       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

another  is  only  half-formed,  one  half  a  pure  diamond  and 
the  other  a  kind  of  milky  pebble;  another,  a  large 
stone,  has  a  distinct  representation  of  a  tiny  fern  in  it, 
another  one  is  a  perfectly  round,  flat,  smooth  stone, 
rather  larger  than  a  shilling  and  about  twice  as  thick, 
quite  clear,  you  can  read  print  through  it.  Some  of  the 
stones  are  very  valuable.  The  emerald-green  one  is 
only  8  carats  and  is  worth  about  £700.  Many  of  the 
white  stones  are  worth  £7  to  £10  a  carat. 

"God  bless  you,  my  own,  own  blessed  wife.  Write 
always;  I  feel  so  anxious  about  you.  Promise  me  not 
to  run  risks.  Send  me  all  your  criticisms.  I  am  so  anx- 
ious to  hear. 

"I  know  you  will  be  a  success. 

"Think  as  well  as  you  can  of 

"Daddy." 

"Kimberley, 
"January,  1889. 


({ 


tn 


'I  am  beginning  to  hate  Kimberley;  what  I  want  is 
for  Rhodes  to  send  me  up  into  the  interior  to  Loben- 
gula's  country,  Matabeleland.  The  general  impression 
here  is  that  the  first  fellows  who  are  sent  up  will  make 
their  fortunes.     I  shall  do  my  level  best  to  get  sent.   .   .   . 

"I  believe  this  last  scheme  of  Rhodes'  will  turn  into  a 
company  every  bit  as  large  and  powerful  as  the  old  East 
India  Company.  From  all  accounts  the  country  to  be 
opened  up  is  magnificent,  and  full  of  minerals  far  su- 
perior to  anything  yet  found  in  Africa.  The  only  dif- 
ficulty is  transport,  and  Rhodes  is  going  to  run  a  rail- 
way to  the  Zambesi.  There  is  a  wonderful  future  for 
Africa,  If  Rhodes  only  lives." 

***** 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       45 

About  this  time  I  received  the  following,  now 
amusing  letter  from  my  dear  old  friend.  "Aunt 
Kate,"  which  gives  a  most  vivid  impression  of  the 
prejudiced  attitude  towards  the  theatrical  profession 
in  those  days: — 

"34,  Avenue  de  Villiers, 

"Paris, 
"My  dear  Beatrice, 

"Since  I  received  your  first  letter  I  have  felt  almost 
unable  to  write.  The  shock  it  gave  me  I  could  never 
explain  to  you,  nor  would  you  understand  it.  Nor  did 
I  quite  realise  before  how  dear  you  were  to  me.  I  should 
hardly  have  believed  that  losing  you  would,  after  all, 
have  caused  me  such  infinite  pain. 

"Poor,  unfortunate  child,  may  God  help  you,  if,  as 
you  say,  the  die  for  evil  is  cast.  I  can  only  pray,  as  the 
only  chance  to  save  you,  that  you  make  too  decided  a 
failure  ever  to  try  again. 

"Good  God,  how  could  you  think  I  could  write  and 
wish  you  success?  How  thankful  I  feel  that  it  was  not 
whilst  with  me  that  you  took  the  wrong  turning.  Mrs. 
Hogarth  is  a  vulgar  mind — she  made,  too,  in  one  of  her 
letters,  observations  which  decided  me  about  her.  I 
forget,  but  to  the  effect  that  it  mattered  little  about  you 
if  you   got  money. 

"But  your  mother  !  !  !  I  should  have  thought  her  the 
very  last  to  allow  you  to  enter  on  such  a  path!   ! 

"Ah,  well,  I  do  not  think  anyone  ever  loved  my  poor 
little  child  as  I  did.  Although  our  meetings  were  diffi- 
cult, I  knew  you  were  there — I  felt  I  had  one  other  tie 
to  earth.  And  when  you  were  the  first-rate  musician 
which  I  have  never  doubted  your  becoming,  I  hoped  you 
might  have  played  with  glory  at  concerts,  and  over  here. 


46       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

what  a  joy  to  have  heard  you — and  your  praise.  For 
that  would  have  been  honest  and  reputable  praise. 
Whilst  gaining  which  you  could  have  held  up  your  head 
in  any  society.  Oh,  my  poor  Beatrice,  you  can  form 
no  idea — you  have  yet  to  learn — the  shame,  the  humilia- 
tion of  seeing  yourself  despised  by  decent  people. 

"Even  the  admiration  of  the  mob  will  not  make  up 
for  it  to  you.  You  have  too  much  intelligence  for  that 
and,  I  had  thought,  too  much  pride. 

"I  now  see  your  reason  for  leaving  me  so  many  weeks 
without  a  letter;  you  would  not  hint  at  it  till  too  late. 
And  yet,  of  course,  no  remonstrance  would  ever  stop 
you.  How  could  they  allow  and  encourage  your  first 
home  attempts? 

"How  can  a  woman  bid  with  pleasure  farewell  to  her 
best  and  happiest  heritage — name,  reputation,  affection — 
to  allow  her  every  look  and  movement  to  be  criticised 
by  all  the  common  jeering  mouths  and  minds  of  the  pub- 
lic. And  this  was  once  dear  little  Beatrice — the  poor 
little  girl  who  spent  one  happy  year  in  Paris  with  her 
Aunt  Kate.' 

"What  a  dream  it  will  be  to  you  in  your  future  riotous 
life.  In  fact  I  am  wretched — such  a  sorrow  and  disap- 
pointment from  what  I  thought  was  in  store  for  my  dar- 
ling. However,  let  me  have  my  own  feelings  alone — 
they  are  nothing  in  the  matter;  and  the  past  is  gone.  I 
must  try  to  forget  that  dream. 

Should  you  succeed,  there  may  at  last  be  money;  but 
is  that  all  to  those  around  you?  Is  your  future  noth- 
ing, your  happiness? 

"Well,  Texas  would  have  been  better  than  this.  On 
the  receipt  of  your  letter  of  six  weeks  back  I  told  Charley 
you  had  some  secret  plan  in  view  of  'exquisite  joy.' 
I  said,  almost  with  bated  breath,  'Is  it  the  stage — an 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       47 

actress?'  He  looked  grave,  and  said  I  had  no  right  to 
imagine  such  a  thing.  Beatrice  was  frivolous,  but  he 
knew  you  better  than  that  your  nature  would  ever  let 
you  sink  to  that,  so  low.  And  now  he  has  listened,  but 
answered  not  a  word,  and  only  looked  doubly  grave. 

"Oh,  think  what  a  charm  your  music  might  have  cast 
on  all  circles  where  you  entered.  And  I  should  have 
felt  my  poor  old  heart  beat  with  pleasure  when  you  told 
me.  God  forbid  I  should  tell  any  more  than  necessary 
of  this,  your  last  horrid  fancy. 

'A  painful  effort  this  letter  is.  But  I  would  not 
write  until  a  day  or  two  had  a  little  cooled  and  calmed 
me.      I  am  anything  but  strong  yet. 

"I  feel  deep  sympathy  for  Mr.  Hill* — a  gentleman 
in  mind,  as  you  have  ever  described  him.  He  must  re- 
gret that  his  business  prevents  him  taking  his  wife  and 
children  far  off  and  cutting  entirely  with  her  family — 
for  although  you  will  naturally  hide  your  name,  bad 
news  always  forces  its  way. 

"See  what  it  is  to  let  a  young  child  grow  up  without 
any  guidance.  Parents  cannot  begin  too  young.  Here  is 
a  nature,  with  so  much  in  it  loving  and  good — which 
might  have  been  turned  for  happiness  to  herself  and 
all  around.  And  now  lost.  Can  I,  who  knew  and 
appreciated  it  (alas!  all  too  late),  be  otherwise  than  sad 
and  miserable?  Would  that  I  could  have  kept  you  ever 
here  with  me. 

"I  must  bid  you  good-bye,  Beatrice,  believe  me  with 
much  sorrow  and  sympathy  with  you  and  your  ill-gov- 
erned impulses.  I  may  have  said  harsh  or  pain- 
ful things.  I  grieve  to  cause  you  pain,  my  dear,  but 
you  rightly  were  expecting  it  must  be  so.  You  know 
my  disgust  for  that  class  to  which  you  are  going  to  ally 

*  My  eldest   sister's   husband. 


48       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

yourself — our  disgust,  I  might  say — and  to  think  that 
one  we  loved,  and  had  lately  in  our  midst,  goes  and  with 
pleasure,  into  such  a  set — to  be  one  of  them! 

"Then  forgive  me  if  I  speak  my  mind;  I  never  could 
flatter  or  pretend  what  I  did  not  feel.  What  I  do  feel 
most  painfully  is  grief  for  you.  And  also  much  sym- 
pathy for  you  in  the  wretched  life  which  you  must  have 
been  going  through. 

"But  my  words  and  thoughts  can  matter  little  now — 
you  will  be  in  too  great  a  state  of  over-excitement  to 
think  of  calm  lives  such  as  ours  over  here. 

"May  your  health  not  break  down  (or,  who  knows? 
that  might  be  the  best  thing). 

"With  heartfelt  anguish  and  sorrow  and  pity  for  your- 
self, dear  Beatrice,  also  much  sympathy,  for  you  must 
suffer  deeply.  You  cannot  leave  all  promise  of  youth 
and  kindred — all  the  past — for  such  a  life — and  be 
happy.  Oh,  no,  I  feel  much  for  the  heart,  which 
I  fancied  I  knew  better  than  others  did,  and  which  I 
surely  had  found.  Poor,  dear  child,  good-bye.  I  can- 
not see  for  my  tears.  Oh,  Beatrice,  how  could  you? 
I  loved  you  too  truly  not  to  grieve  bitterly,  the  breaking 
of  your  young  life,  which  to  me  millions  could  never 
make  up  for. 

"Your  still  fond  aunt, 

"Katherine  Bailey" 


CHAPTER  IV. 

1WAS  given  an  introduction  by  Mr.  F.  W. 
Macklin — a  good  actor  who  sometimes  played 
for  the  Anomalies  Dramatic  Club,  to  an  agent 
— Harrington  Baily. 

Mr.  Baily's  office  was  in  a  street  ofif  the  Strand. 
The  idea  was,  that  I  should  pay  him  a  guinea  fee, 
put  my  name  down  on  his  books,  tell  him  what  ex- 
perience I  had  had  as  an  amateur  or  otherwise;  he 
would  then  make  a  note  of  my  name  and  appearance, 
and  let  me  know  when  he  had  any  work  to  offer  me. 

As  I  was  looking  for  the  number  of  his  office,  I 
saw  a  poor  cat  in  the  gutter  licking  two  little  drowned 
kittens:  she  was  mewing  over  them  pitiably.  This 
upset  me.  I  found  Mr.  Baily's  door,  went  up  a 
flight  of  stone  steps  and  was  shown  into  his  office. 
He  stood  up  to  shake  hands  with  me.  I  opened  my 
mouth  to  speak,  and  I  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears. 
I  suppose  I  was  tired  and  hungry,  and  my  sJtout  heart 
and  stiff  upper  lip  went  to  pieces  at  the  sight  of  the 
drowned  kittens — I  am  not  sure  that  even  now  I 
could  pass  the  sight  unmoved — I  told  Mr.  Baily 
what  I  had  seen.  He  very  sympathetically  took  me 
into  an  inner  room  and  rang  the  bell  for  his  house- 
keeper, ordering  her  to  bring  me  some  tea.  Then 
he  left  me.     About  a  quarter  of  an  hour  afterwards 

49 


50       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

he  returned,  and  I  remember  with  what  a  sympa- 
thetic smile  and  manner  he  told  me  there  was  a  man, 
Mr.  Green  by  name,  in  the  next  room,  who  was  tak- 
ing out  a  play,  Bachelors,  by  Mr.  Hermann  Vezin; 
he  wanted  a  leading  lady,  but  he  could  only  pay  £2 
los.  a  week,  and  the  actress  was  to  supply  her  own 
dresses. 

I  thought  it  a  dazzling  offer.  I  saw  Mr.  Green, 
and  he  seemed  to  me  a  wonderful  person,  for  he  en- 
gaged me  at  once.  I  went  home  to  my  mother  with 
my  good  news.  My  friends  gave  me  some  dress  ma- 
terials, and  I  sat  up  at  night  making  my  frocks;  the 
day-time  was  taken  up  with  rehearsals. 

The  following  letter  shows  the  terms  of  my  agree- 
ment for  this  play: — 

"Frank  Green's  Company, 

"October  i6th,  1888. 
"Dear  Madam, 

"I  hereby  engage  you  for  my  tour  of  Bachelors  to  com- 
mence at  the  Alexandria  Theatre,  Liverpool,  on  October 
22nd,  1888,  at  a  salary  of  £2  los.  per  week.  Fares 
paid  to  join,  and  while  on  tour.  You  to  give  one  week 
previous  to  opening  for  rehearsals.  This  engagement 
subject  to  a  fortnight's  notice  on  either  side  and  to  the 
usual  playhouse  rules  and  regulations. 

"Frank  Green. 


To  Miss  Stella  Campbell." 


* 


*  It  was  not  until  I  joined  Mr.  Ben  Greet's  Company  that  I  called 
myself  Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell.  My  father-in-law  at  first  objected,  but 
later  we  were  great  friends,  and  he  was  proud  of  my  success. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       51 

I  was  out  to  fight  for  my  two  children,  and  to  try 
and  make  enough  money  to  bring  Pat  home  to  us 
more  quickly. 

We  were  rehearsed  for  a  week  at  the  Mona  Hotel, 
Covent  Garden,  by  Mr.  Hermann  Vezin,  and  then 
on  the  Sunday  we  started  ofif  for  Liverpool  to  open 
at  the  Alexandra  Theatre,  November  20th,  1888. 

The  following  was  the  cast: — 

Rufus  Marrable  (a  retired  Q.C.),  Mr.  William  Lowe, 

Charles  Lovelace   (his  nephew),  Mr.  Oswald  Yorke. 

Robert  Bromley  (a  professor  of  music),  Mr.  Edgar 
Smart. 

Dr.  West,  Mr.  Bruce  Henderson. 
Potts  (factotum  at  Bachelor's  Hall),  Mr.  Sidney  Burt. 

Mrs.  Lynne  Loseby  (a  young  widow).  Miss  Stella 
Campbell. 

Emmeline  Loseby  (her  cousin),  Miss  Naomi  Neilson. 

Mrs.  Moody  (landlady  of  Bachelor's  Hall),  Mrs. 
William  Lowe. 

Sophia  Moody  (her  daughter),  Miss  Grace  Gordon. 

Susan  Stubbs  (Mrs.  Loseby's  maid).  Miss  Clara 
Marbrame. 

I  remember  on  the  Monday  I  went  out  for  a  walk 
in  the  morning  trembling  with  excitement.  I  looked 
in  the  shop  windows,  feeling  nervous  and  desolate. 
I  was  standing  outside  a  draper's  shop,  when  a  kind 
voice  said:  "You  look  very  pale,  miss;  won't  you 
come  in  and  sit  down?"  It  was  the  draper  himself. 
I  went  in  and  sat  on  a  chair  by  the  counter.  I  told 
him  I  was  going  to  act  that  night  at  the  Alexandra 


52       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

Theatre,  and  that  it  was  the  first  time  in  my  life  that 
I  would  be  acting  in  a  real  theatre.  He  was  very 
interested,  and  cheered  me  by  saying  that  he  would 
come  and  see  the  performance.  I  felt  I  would  have 
one  friend  in  the  house' — the  company  were  all 
strangers  to  me — and  I  had  not  left  my  babies  before. 

When  I  came  on  to  the  stage  my  first  feeling  was 
that  the  audience  was  too  far  away  for  me  to  reach 
out  to  them,  so  I  must,  as  it  were,  quickly  gather 
them  up  to  myself:  and  I  think  I  may  say  that  this 
has  always  been  the  instinctive  principle  of  my  act- 
ing. Whether  it  is  the  wrong  or  the  right  principle, 
I  leave  it  for  others  to  decide. 

I  am  sure  I  had  no  technique,  and  my  voice  was 
the  voice  of  a  "singing  mouse."  The  papers  praised 
me,  and  they  also  praised  my  dresses,  and  I  was  very 
proud  and  happy. 

My  next  engagement  was  on  tour  in  Tares  with 
Mrs.   Bandmann-Palmer. 

I  think  my  contract  for  this  play  too,  may  hold 
some  interest  for  the  young  actresses  of  to-day: — 

"To  Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell. 

"I  hereby  undertake  to  engage  you  for  my  forthcom- 
ing Spring  Tour,  commencing  on  April  22nd,  1889,  at  a 
weekly  salary  of  £2  (two  pounds)  for  seven  performances 
(if  required)  in  each  week,  you  undertaking  to  play  the 
part  of  "Rachael  Denison"  in  Tares  and  to  understudy 
and  act  all  other  parts  for  which  you  may  be  cast  during 
the  said  tour;  you  to  find  your  own  dresses,  you  to  at- 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       53 

tend  rehearsals  in  London  for  two  clear  weeks  previous 
to  commencement  of  tour;  and  to  pay  your  ov/n  rail 
fare  to  the  opening  town,  and  to  be  there  in  time  for  re- 
hearsal on  the  morning  of  Monday,  April  22nd.  I  to 
pay  your  third-class  railway  fares  on  each  journey  taken 
with  the  company  after  joining, 

"This  engagement  is  to  be  terminable  by  a  fortnight's 
notice  on  either  side,  and  you  are  to  abide  by  the  rules 
and  regulations  of  the  various  theatres  in  which  the  com- 
pany may  be  acting. 

"Millicent  Bandmann-Palmer. 

'April  15th,  1889." 

How  was  it  done?  How  did  we  live?  And  how 
manage  to  send  money  home?  We  did,  and  many 
of  us  are  alive  to  tell  the  tale. 

Tares  was  a  good  effective  play  by  Mrs.  Oscar 
Beringer.  I  had  lines  something  like  these,  which 
received  frantic  applause: — 

She:  ''Leave  my  house!" 

I :  "My  house  is  truth  and  honour,  and  in  leav- 
ing, I  turn  you  out." 

I  was  very  young,  ridiculously  thin,  and  fragile- 
looking.  The  manageress  was  stout,  strong,  and 
middle-aged,  and  I  remember  in  one  town  shouts  of 
"Jumbo"  and  "Alice."  I  do  not  know  the  story  of 
these  elephants  at  the  Zoo,  but  I  believe  one  died  of 
a  broken  heart  for  the  other. 

Mrs.  Bandmann-Palmer  did  not  like  me.  She 
told  me  I  belonged  to  the  "school  of  squirmers." 
The  company  were  kind,  sympathetic  people,  and 


54       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

Mr.  Lyall  Swete  has  remained  a  dear  friend  of  mine 
to  this  day. 

At  last  Mrs.  Bandmann-Palmer  offended  me 
deeply  and  I  handed  in  my  notice. 

The  members  of  the  company  expressed  their  feel- 
ings of  sympathy  for  me  in  the  following  letter, 
showing  they  were  all  my  faithful  allies: — 

"Grand  Theatre, 

"Cardiff, 
"2nd  June,  1889. 
"Dear  Mrs.  Campbell, 

"We  cannot  allow  you  to  leave  us  without  express- 
ing our  deep  regret  in  losing  a  true  friend  and  so  ex- 
cellent an  artist. 

"We  should  also  like  to  record  our  admiration  of  the 
way  in  which  you  have  rendered  the  part  of  'Rachael 
Denlson.' 

"We  hope  that  the  friendship  we  all  have  for  you  will 
be  strengthened  and  renewed  at  no  very  distant  date,  and 
in  the  meantime  we  sincerely  wish  you  everything  that  you 
could  possibly  wish  for  yourself,  and  remain, 

"Your  friendly  admirers, 
"Acton  Bond. 
"Mervyn  Herepath. 
"E.    Lyall    Swete. 
"Caleb  Porter. 
"Charles    B.    West. 
"Frank  Worthing. 
"Lucca  de  Rivas. 
"Ida  North. 
"Hlnnetta  Faye. 
"Alice   Carlton. 
"Tares'  Company — Spring  Tour." 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       55 

They  arranged  a  farewell  supper  party.  We  were 
all  to  contribute  a  performance  to  the  entertainment. 
How  excited  I  was.  I  remember  I  trimmed  a  white 
dress  I  had  with  a  border  of  real  green  ivy  leaves 
and  arranged  the  dress  in  Greek  fashion. 

I  recited  Tennyson's  "Two  Sisters,"  pouring  out 
my  "secret"  to  that  little  company.  I  felt  they  all 
believed  in  me,  and  my  future,  and  I  was  full  of 
gratitude  and  pride. 

After  this  engagement  I  spent  many  weeks  at 
home,  and  received  the  following  letters  from  Pat: — ■ 

"Central  Company, 
"Kimberley. 
"i6th  September,  1889. 


(( 


"Thank  you  very  much  for  your  dear,  long  letter,  tell- 
ing me  you  had  a  chance  of  getting  on  so  well.  It  was 
a  great  comfort  to  me,  for  I  am  fairly  down  in  the  mouth. 
I  can  get  no  word  from  the  De  Beers  people,  and  feel 
very  anxious.  I  am  very  well  in  health,  darling,  and 
much  stronger  than  I  was.  We  are  just  getting  the 
commencement  of  summer  here,  and  it  is  very  hot.   .   .   . 

"Rhodes  has  only  just  come  up  here,  and  I  cannot 
get  hold  of  him;  he  is  so  busy.  I  cannot  find  out  what 
they  are  going  to  do  in  Matabeleland.   .   .  . 

"Pat." 

"Kimberley, 
"14th  October,  1889. 
"My  darling  wife, 

"It  was  impossible  for  me  to  send  you  money  last 
month.     I   am  out  of  a  billet,  and  am  very  miserable 


56       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

about  it.  I  do  hope  to  have  better  news  next  week.  I 
hoped  to  have  got  something  to  do  by  to-day,  darling;  it 
will  be  only  for  a  week  or  two  at  most. 

"Thank  you  so  much  for  your  sweet  letters.  I  think 
I  shall  have  good  news  for  you  next  mail.  I  have  got 
a  very  good  name  here  in  Kimberley,  but  things  are  very 
dull  just  now  and  few  billets  going.   .   .   ," 

"Kimberley, 
"8th  November,  1889 


{( 


"I  have  news  which  I  am  afraid  may  frighten  you.  I 
am  going  to  Matabeleland  to-day.  I  had  the  chance 
offered  me  and,  after  consulting  many  friends  who  are  in 
the  know,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  go,  as  I  could  not  get  a 
billet  in  Kimberley. 

"There  are  fifteen  of  us  going,  all  connected  with  the 
De  Beers  Company,  and  mostly  friends  of  Rhodes.  We 
are  not  allowed  to  know  anything  yet,  and  are  sworn  in 
and  attached  to  E.  Troop  of  'Bechuanaland  Border  Po- 
lice, with  troopers'  pay,  about  £5  a  month  (and  all 
found),  which  is  all  I  shall  be  able  to  send  you  for  a 
month  or  two. 

"Rhodes  and  all  the  De  Beers  directors  tell  me  to  go, 
and  I  shall  never  regret  it.  What  I  fancy  is  that  we 
are  to  get  commissions  in  the  new  Chartered  Company's 
forces,  with  a  good  interest  in  the  company.  We  shall 
probably  know  more  about  it  when  we  get  further  up 
country.  Everybody  here  seems  to  think  that  we  are 
bound  to  make  our  fortunes,  as  we  are  being  sent  up  by 
Mr.  Rhodes,  who  is  a  sort  of  king  out  here.  We  go 
right  through  Bechuanaland,  via  Barkley,  Mafeking,  and 
are  to  receive  instructions  at  a  place  called  Ibili,  on  the 
Matabele  frontier.     We  are  going  in  one  of  the  Char- 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       57 

tered  Company's  wagons,  and  will  p'robably  be  about  six 
weeks  or  two  months  before  we  get  to  Ibili. 

"You  may  think  me  wrong  to  go,  dear,  but  I  could 
get  nothing  to  do  in  Kimberley  and  was  getting  into  debt, 
and  saw  no  prospects.  Everybody  advised  me  to  accept 
the  offer,  and  seemed  to  think  my  fortune  is  made. 

"I  will  write  you  again  when  I  know  more. 

"Good-bye,  darling.  God  bless  you.  Don't  think 
badly  of  me.     I  am  doing  my  best.  "Pat." 

vpr  vpr  ^  1^ 

My  next  engagement  was  with  Mr.  Ben  Greet  in 
his  Touring  Company,  and  this  was  the  beginning 
of  really  fine  experience  for  me.  I  was  thrown,  as 
it  were,  into  the  sea  to  swim.  The  salary  was  £2  los. 
a  week,  and  I  to  supply  my  own  dresses. 

How  through  the  night  we  used  to  stitch!  Miss 
Violet  Ray — a  lovely  girl,  with  whom  I  made  great 
friends — and  I. 

I  remember  how  she  used  to  coax  me  to  allow  her 
to  take  my  little  son — he  was  then  about  five  years 
old,  and  used  to  come  and  stay  with  me  for  a  week  or 
so  at  a  time — out  for  a  walk,  and  insisted  upon  his 
calling  her  "mother"  *  in  shops  or  when  people  pass- 
ing by  could  overhear.  She  thought  it  so  wonder- 
ful to  have  a  son. 

We  played  As  you  Like  It,  A  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream,  Twelfth  Night,  Love  in  a  Mist,  by  Louis  N. 
Parker;  and  once,  Ben  Greet  made  me  play  principal 

*  Violet  Ray  some   years   afterwards   left  the   stage   and   married   Mr. 
Nye  Chantj  and  had  lovely  children  of  her  own. 


58       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

boy  in  a  pantomime,  Aladdin.  I  remember  the  hor- 
ror of  the  boy's  velvet  suit  sent  down  from  London, 
evidently  for  a  very  stout  lady;  the  bust  had  to  be 
filled  with  tissue  paper  for  me. 

I  came  down  to  the  footlights  and  sang  with  the 
orchestra.     The  song  began: — 

"They  say  the  years  have  swallows'  wings, 
But  mine  have  leaden  feet." 

And  the  refrain  was:  ''For  you,  for  you,  my  dar- 
ling. .  .  ." 

I  felt  so  foolish  that  I  wept.  Dear  Mr.  Ben 
Greet,  whose  part  in  the  pantomime  I  forget,  laughed 
merrily  at  me.  I  am  afraid  I  gave  a  shocking  per- 
formance— I  know  I  was  never  oflfered  a  pantomime 
engagement  again. 

I  often  used  to  hear  Mr.  Ben  Greet's  voice  from 
the  prompt  corner,  "Don't  mug,  Pat,"  when  I 
thought  I  was  making  a  fine  facial  expression,  or, 
perhaps,  I  was  not  thinking  at  all. 

Mr.  Ben  Greet  was  a  great  man  to  me,  for  it 
seemed  there  was  not  a  play  he  did  not  know  from 
start  to  finish,  with  every  bit  of  "business"  connected 
with  it.  He  was  always  smiling,  cheerful,  and  cour- 
ageous, whether  it  was  a  big  audience  or  a  small 
one,  and  won  my  love  by  his  extraordinary  kindness 
to  my  children. 

There  was  a  never-to-be-forgotten  day,  when  Mr. 
Greet  took  my  little  son  down  to  the  beach,  and  al- 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       59 

lowed  him  to  help  some  men  who  were  filling  a  coal 
barge.  How  I  remember  the  little  black  figure  on 
the  sands  running  to  meet  me  in  the  evening,  wild 
with  joy  and  excitement. 

I  do  not  think  Ben  Greet  ever  shook  my  faith,  that 
some  day  I  would  be  able  to  act  well,  and  that  the  pub- 
lic would  love  me,  and  if  it  were  necessary,  I  should 
be  able  to  educate  and  provide  for  my  children. 

I  wish  I  could  remember  about  the  lodgings  on 
tour,  the  landladies,  my  fellow  actors  and  actresses. 
It  is  foolish  of  me  to  have  forgotten  so  much  kind- 
ness— and  adventure. 

I  kept  no  diary.  I  lived,  as  it  were,  in 
front  of  the  moment,  not  criticising  the  hour:  actual 
events  did  not  absorb  me,  for  I  have  no  recollection 
of  disliking  anything  or  finding  anything  tedious. 
I  suppose  I  was  so  grateful  for  the  opportunity;  the 
enterprise:  my  mind  was  set  on  the  goal  ahead — 
Pat's  return — and  his  pride  in  his  children  and  my 
success. 

There  must  have  been  many  dreary  hours — ugli- 
ness that  hurt,  shabby  clothes,  insufficient  food,  ex- 
haustion; but  these  things  left  no  sting. 

Looking  back,  I  remember  the  actors  and  actresses 
as  all  very  kind,  clever  people,  and  so  grateful  to  be 
in  an  engagement,  their  warm  childish  impulses  un- 
harmed by  the  social  ambitions  of  the  London  art- 
ist. Songs  in  the  train,  brilliant  repartee  hurled  at 
tired  railway  porters,  Shakespeare  quoted  at  weary 
cabmen. 


6o       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

Their  name  on  a  good  position  on  the  hoardings, 
or  their  praise  in  the  local  paper,  took  all  sense 
of  hardship  and  care  away,  and  filled  them  with 
gaiety  and  happiness. 

I  recall  the  following  incident  clearly  :- 

I  had  been  working  very  hard,  living  on  a  few 
shillings  a  week — I  always  sent  money  home  out  of 
my  £2  or  £2  los.,  salary:  in  those  days  you  could  get 
a  nice  room  and  board  for  i8s.  a  week;  and  many 
actresses  lived  on  £1  a  week. 

One  night  the  management,  to  save  expense,  sent 
us  on  to  our  next  town  by  the  "milk  train."  We  ar- 
rived at  5  a.  m.  on  a  winter's  morning,  and  I  had  no 
room  to  go  to.  I  asked  a  kindly-looking  old  porter 
if  he  knew  of  any  rooms,  and  he  advised  me  to  go 
home  with  him.  His  wife,  he  said,  had  a  little  room 
to  let.     He  looked  a  most  trustworthy  individual. 

As  a  rule,  one  asked  for  addresses  at  the  theatre, 
if  lodgings  had  not  been  arranged  by  letter  before- 
hand, but  the  theatre  was  not  open  at  that  hour.  So 
I  went  along  with  the  kindly  porter.  I  remember 
the  small  attic  under  the  roof.  It  looked  tidy  and 
clean,  so  far  as  I  could  see  by  the  light  of  the  candle. 

I  got  into  bed  and  fell  into  a  deep  sleep — I  was 
worn  out,  I  never  could  sleep  in  a  train.  I  awoke 
with  a  start.  The  grey  morning  light  came  through 
the  little  window,  which  was  almost  on  a  level  with 
the  floor;  the  ceiling  slanted  to  the  top  of  the  win- 
dow. At  first  I  could  not  remember  where  I  was, 
or  where  my  children  were!     I  was  lost  in  terror, 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       6i 

and  I  instinctively  screamed  "Mother!"  The  sound 
of  my  voice  brought  me  to  my  senses.  With  the 
loss  of  memory  my  resistance  had  snapped,  and 
I  knew  fear. 

Pat's  letters  came  seldom.  Sometimes  he  was  out 
of  a  job,  or  down  with  malaria;  sometimes  succeed- 
ing for  a  few  months,  and  then  a  cheque  would  come. 
Sometimes  he  was  cut  oflf  from  all  communication 
with  the  outer  world  by  the  flooded  rivers.  Then 
I  used  to  think  he  had  died  of  fever,  or  that  he  had 
been  mauled  by  a  lion.  Those  hours  numbed  me 
and  sapped  a  little  of  my  young  life,  I  think.  We 
had  both  agreed  that  Pat  should  stay  away  until  he 
could  bring  money  home,  or  until  I  had  succeeded 
sufficiently  in  my  work  for  us  to  be  together  again. 
My  uncle's  and  mother's  sympathy  and  devotion, 
helped  to  keep  my  heart  up,  and  there  were  my 
children's  happy  little  visits  to  me;  and  sometimes 
a  girl  friend  would  come  and  stay  with  me  for  a 
week. 

During  this  engagement  a  performance  was  given 
by  Mr.  Ben  Greet  of  The  Hunchback,  for  the  debut 
of  Miss  Laura  Johnson,  a  pupil  of  Hermann  Vezin 
and  Madame  Modjeska,  I  had  to  study  "Helen" 
quickly.  A  straw-coloured  wig  was  sent  up  for  me 
from  London,  and  a  high-waisted  pink  satin  dress. 
"Modus"  was  played  by  Mr.  Ben  Greet.  Dressed 
up  as  I  was,  I  enjoyed  mightily  the  comedy  scene  I 
played  with  him.     I  discovered  for  the  first  time  that 


62       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

when  I  was  amused,  the  audience  laughed.  There 
was  great  enthusiasm,  and  I  knew  I  was  a  success. 

On  my  way  back  from  the  theatre  to  my  lodgings, 
I  was  followed  by  a  man,  and,  although  I  hurried  till 
I  almost  ran,  he  overtook  me,  and  he  introduced  him- 
self to  me  as  Hugh  Moss,  many  years  afterwards 
Sir  Hugh  Moss,  of  the  Moss  Empires.  He  told  me 
that  I  had  made  a  great  success,  that  John  Hare  and 
Clement  Scott  had  been  in  the  theatre,  invited  by 
Mr.  Hermann  Vezin  to  see  Miss  Laura  Johnson,  but 
that  it  was  I  who  had  won  their  hearts.  I  thanked 
him  shyly,  and  hurried  home,  as  he  stared  after  me. 
I  never  remember  meeting  him  again. 

One  day  when  we  were  playing  at  Folkestone, 
Laura  Johnson  and  Hermann  Vezin  thought  a  sea 
trip  before  the  theatre  would  be  amusing,  so  they 
went  in  an  excursion  boat  from  Folkestone  to  Boul- 
ogne, but  they  were  late  in  getting  back  for  the  be- 
ginning of  the  evening  performance. 

I  was  sent  for  and  told  that  a  Lever  de  Rideau 
must  be  played.  I  went  to  the  theatre,  and  Mr.  Ben 
Greet  said  we  must  give  a  one-act  play  he  had  in  his 
repertoire;  about  a  boys'  school  next  door  to  a  con- 
vent. A  boy  climbs  over  the  garden  wall  and  makes 
love  to  a  girl.  A  nun  discovers  them,  and  is  horri- 
fied. It  turns  out  that  the  boy  and  girl  are  cou- 
sins and  are  engaged  so  the  play  ends  with  a 
merry  dance.  Ben  Greet  told  me  that  the  parts  of 
the  boy  and  girl  were  to  be  played  by  two  members  of 
the  company,  who  knew  their  roles,  but  that  I  must 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       63 

play  the  nun — that  I  was  to  make  a  nun's  dress  out  of 
some  black  cloth  and  white  linen  with  safety-pins  at 
once,  and  that  he  would  say  the  words  loudly  from 
the  prompt  corner.  All  I  had  to  do  was  to  open  and 
shut  my  mouth,  hold  up  my  hands  in  horror  until  the 
dance  at  the  end,  in  which  the  nun  joins.  /  did  so, 
and  it  was  a  success. 

Mr.  Pinero  was  in  front.  Years  afterwards  I 
asked  him  if  he  had  noticed  anything  odd  about  the 
performance,  and  he  said  "No." 

During  this  tour,  Mr.  Ben  Greet  took  us  to  give 
two  pastoral  performances  for  Lord  Pembroke  at 
Wilton — As  you  Like  It,  and  A  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream.  The  company  were  excited  at  the  idea  of 
going  to  Wilton,  the  home  of  Shakespeare's  friend, 
William  Herbert. 

It  is  said  this  family  once  possessed  a  letter — now 
unfortunately  lost — from  Queen  Elizabeth,  saying 
she  would  like  to  come  and  stay  at  Wilton  for  three 
night's  and  meet  "that  man  Shakespeare  who  writes 
plays." 

Lord  Pembroke  *  was  one  of  the  handsomest  men 
of  his  day.  He  was  very  tall,  extraordinarily  hand- 
some, with  a  fine  figure  and  hazel  eyes — the  colour  of 
the  water  of  a  tarn — full  of  deep,  gentle  sympathy; 
beautiful  features,  and  a  short,  curly  beard.  He  had 
a  singularly  winning  and  sympathetic  manner;  in- 

*The  late  Earl  of  Pembroke,  whose  sister,  Lady  Maud,  and  her 
husband.  Sir  Hubert  Parry,  lived  a  few  doors  from  me  in  Kensington 
Square,   and   were  my   dear   friends  for  twenty  years. 


64       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

deed,  a  sympathy  in  his  whole  bearing  which  won 
everybody's  love. 

A  great  many  people  had  arrived  to  see  the  play 
from  neighbouring  houses.  Two  among  the  guests, 
who  later  became  great  friends  of  mine,  Mrs.  Hor- 
ner *  and  Miss  Balfour,t  told  me  afterwards  of 
an  incident  rather  typical  of  the  mental  attitude  in 
those  days  towards  stage  players. 

Mrs.  Horner  had  come  over  from  Mells,  bringing 
Miss  Balfour  with  her,  to  see  As  You  Like  It. 
When  they  arrived,  they  were  met  at  the  hall  door 
by  Lady  Pembroke,  looking  very  excited  and  myste- 
rious. She  said  they  were  not  to  see  any  of  the  other 
guests,  but  they  were  to  come  and  be  "dressed  up"  at 
once  to  impersonate  two  ladies  in  Ben  Greet's  com- 
pany. JLady  Pembroke  would  not  listen  to  any  hesi- 
tation. She  rang  for  her  maid,  and  said:  "Fetch 
me  some  Gainsborough  hats  and  cloaks";  and  a  wig, 
and  some  rouge  were  found. 

Frances  Horner,  with  her  remarkable  face  and 
eyes,  was  very  difficult  to  disguise,  so  it  was  decided 
to  turn  her  into  a  very  dissipated  old  harridan.  I 
am  not  sure  she  did  not  have  a  tooth  blacked  out. 
She  wore  the  wig  and  was  highly  rouged,  and  as- 
sumed an  aggressive,  vulgar  manner. 

Miss  Balfour  wore  a  bonnet,  a  thick  veil,  a  long 
red  cloak,  and  she,  too,  was  rouged.  She  was  given 
some  queer  French  name.     Mrs.  Horner  was  called 

*Lady    Horner,    of    Mells    Park,    Frome. 
tThe    Hon.    Mrs.   Alfred    Lyttelton. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       65 

"Miss  Greet."  When  they  came  out  on  to  the 
lawn  with  Lady  Pembroke,  their  most  intimate 
friends  were  sitting  and  walking  about — they 
did  not  expect  their  disguise  would  last  a  mo- 
ment. 

Miss  Balfour  was  introduced  to  Lord  Pembroke, 
and  Mrs.  Horner  to  Lady  Brownlow,  and  other 
guests,  and  nobody  recognised  them. 

Lord  Pembroke  told  Miss  Balfour  afterwards  that 
he  was  afraid  to  look  at  her,  she  seemed  so  painted 
and  so  shy.  She  heard  someone  say:  "That  one  is 
rather  like  Miss  Balfour,  if  Miss  Balfour  were 
pretty." 

Mrs.  Horner  attacked  her  impersonation  with  vig- 
our. She  declared,  with  a  hideous  grin,  that  her 
favourite  role  was  "Juliet,"  and  everyone  shunned 
her  except  Lord  Ribblesdale,  whose  amused  toler- 
ance of  all  idiosyncrasy  has  always  helped  him  to  be 
kind. 

At  luncheon  the  climax  was  reached.  The  real 
members  of  Ben  Greet's  company  arrived,  and  sat 
with  other  guests  at  another  table.  Miss  Balfour 
had  just  been  invited  by  Mr.  Harry  Cust  to  go  for 
a  walk  with  him  in  the  woods  after  the  performance, 
and  Mrs.  Horner  had  secured  the  promise  from  the 
same  young  man,  that  he  would  take  a  box  at  her 
benefit,  when  Lady  Pembroke  rose  hurriedly,  and 
said  in  an  agitated  whisper:  "It's  no  use  going  on; 
that's  Frances  Horner  and  that's  D.  D.  Balfour,  and 
you  must  be  quiet  about  it  because  of  the  next  table." 


66       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

We,  at  the  next  table,  only  thought  there  were 
curious  people  at  the  other  table. 

They  must  have  been  a  little  surprised  by  our 
youth  and  prettiness;  we  were  both  of  us  only  a 
little  over  twenty,  and  Violet  Ray  was  very  lovely. 

I  had  another  impression  at  this  gathering,  which 
surprised  and  annoyed  me.  Some  of  the  guests  spoke 
in  a  curiously  patronising  way,  which  made  me 
very  uncomfortable.  I  think  I  must  have  shown 
this,  for  suddenly  a  woman  with  a  face  full  of  beauty 
and  intelligence,  put  her  arm  about  me.  Who  of 
the  hundreds  who  loved  her  can  ever  forget  her,  or 
think  of  her  without  a  blessing,  dear  Mrs.  Percy 
Wyndham  * — "Aunt  Madeline."  From  that  mo- 
ment she  entered  my  heart,  and  I  held  her  there  until 
she  died  in  1920,  and  I  hold  her  there  still. 

Ignorant  of  the  world,  as  I  was,  easily  impressed 
by  any  external  grace  and  beauty,  Aunt  Madeline 
set  a  standard  for  me,  by  which  I  judged  people  in- 
stinctively; later,  when  I  moved  among  the  hetero- 
geneous crowd  which  surrounds  successful  artists,  I 
discerned  those  whom  I  thought  would  be  worthy  of 
her  friendship,  and  those  who  would  not  be. 

No  doubt  it  is  chiefly  to  her,  I  owe  a  vision  of  life 
as  it  is  best  to  live  it.  She  had  no  prejudices,  all 
about  her  was  warmth,  an  intelligent  quickness  of 
sympathy,  and  a  lack  of  curiosity,  making  explana- 

*The  Hon.  Mrs.  Percy  Wyndham.  After  her  death  her  son,  Colonel 
Guy  Wyndham,  brought  me  all  my  letters  written  to  her  during  nearly 
thirty  years.     "Aunt  Madeline"  had   kept  them  with  her  children's. 


IN    ONE   OF   HER  MOST   FAMOUS  ROI.ES 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       67 

tions  unnecessary,  leaving  the  sacred  recesses  of  the 
heart  unhurt.  .  .  . 

But  to  go  back  to  Wilton ;  the  morning  had  been 
dull  and  the  afternoon  was  cloudy,  but  it  was  fine 
enough  for  us  to  act.  The  scene  was  most  beautiful, 
great  spreading  trees  at  the  side  of  a  little  open  glade. 
At  the  back,  undulating  grounds. 

At  my  first  entrance  as  Ganymede,  Lord  Pem- 
broke's pugs — he  had  a  special  breed  of  his  own — 
suddenly  rushed  over  the  grass  to  a  knoll  I  had 
reached,  and  barked  furiously  at  my  long  boots. 

I  am  afraid  I  was  delighted  at  the  interruption — 
I  am  most  surely  a  fool  over  dogs — I  stooped  down 
and  spoke  to  them  in  a  special  dog  language  of  my 
own,  forgetting  for  the  moment  all  about  Rosalind 
and  the  smart  audience. 

Lord  Pembroke,  with  mingled  embarrassment, 
courtesy,  and  humour,  came  across  the  ground  and 
apologised  as  he  called  the  dogs  away.  Perhaps 
the  interruption  made  my  "Rosalind"  more  natural. 
How  I  loved  the  beauty  of  it  all. 

^C  ^*  ^^  ^f^  '*¥* 

In  the  evening,  to  the  light  of  lanterns  and  the 
moon,  we  played  A  Midsummer  Nighfs  Dream, 
lying  on  the  grass,  running  to  and  fro,  the  moths 
playing  about  us.  The  glamour  of  the  night  and 
the  cadence  of  the  verse,  filled  me  with  their  loveli- 
ness. 

The  following  letter  from  Lord  Pembroke,  given 


68       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

to  me  many  months  afterwards  by  Mr.  Ben  Greet,  is 
interesting: — 

"Wilton  House, 

"Salisbury, 
"27th  March,  1891. 
"My  dear  Mr.  Ben  Greet, 

"I  do  remember  most  vividly  how  charming  the  whole 
performance  was,  and  how  specially  delightful  the  'Rosa- 
lind' of  Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell.  She  was  the  best 
'Rosalind,'  to  my  mind,  that  I  ever  saw,  not  even  except- 
ing Miss  Rehan,  admirable  as  she  was.  That  very  gifted 
and  talented  actress  made  more  of  the  part — put  more 
into  it — but  her  impersonation  lacked  the  freshness  and 
spontaneity  of  Mrs.  Campbell's  that  made  hers  so  de- 
licious. But  comparisons  are  ungracious  between  things 
that  are  really  good.  If  Mrs.  Campbell  ever  acts 
'Rosalind'  in  London,  may  I  be  there  to  see. 

"I  heard  that  she  played  'Lady  Teazle'  at  a  matinee  in 
town  not  long  ago.  I  wish  I  had  known  of  it.  The  part 
should  have  suited  her  admirably,  and  Beerbohm  Tree 
told  me  that  he  had  heard  the  performance  spoken  of  very 
highly  in  the  acting  world.  .   .   ." 

It  was,  I  believe,  shortly  after  this  performance  at 
Wilton  that  a  matinee  of  A  Buried  Talent  by  Louis 
N.  Parker  was  given  at  the  Vaudeville  Theatre, 
London,  by  Mr.  Ben  Greet. 

The  following  letter,  sent  me  by  the  author,  shows 
the  success  with  which  it  met: — 

A  Buried  Talent. 
"It  was  on  the  afternoon  of  Wednesday,  June  5th, 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       69 

1890 — thirty-one  years  ago — that  my  firstling,  A  Buried 
Talent,  with  you  in  the  female  part,  was  produced  by 
Ben  Greet  at  a  single  matinee  at  the  Vaudeville  Theatre 
in  the  Strand.  I  had  seen  you  play  once  before  in  my 
Love-in-a-Mist — one  of  the  most  alluring  performances 
I  have  ever  witnessed — so  I  knew  to  some  extent  what 
to  expect.  Your  fellow  players  were  Ben  Greet,  Basset 
Roe,  Roland  Atwood,  and  Murray  Hawthorne.  As 
I  only  got  to  London  in  time  for  lunch — for  which  I  had 
no  appetite — I  saw  no  rehearsal,  and,  in  spite  of  my 
previous  knowledge  of  you,  you  dawned  on  me  as  a  rev- 
elation. I  have  just  refreshed  my  memory  by  reading 
the  play  again,  and  that  has  brought  your  picture  vividly 
before  me.  You  were  a  pure  joy.  You  radiated  beauty 
and  grace;  and  your  voice  was  music.  You  represented 
a  girl  who  was  able  to  act  and  sing  the  principal  part  in 
a  new  opera  at  a  moment's  notice,  and  without  a  re- 
hearsal. That  can  be,  and  has  been  done,  but,  as  a  rule, 
when  a  character  in  a  play  is  described  as  having  such 
an  exceptional  gift,  the  stalls  are  sceptical  and  the  gallery 
boos  with  engaging  frankness.  This  was  not  so  in  your 
case.  We  felt  that  such  a  tour  de  force  would  be  child's 
play  to  you,  you  convinced  us  that  you  could  do  that,  or 
anything  else  you  chose;  and  goodness  knows  you  have 
since  shown  us  we  were  right.  I  think  that,  for  both  of 
us,  the  subject  of  the  playlet  had  a  curious  personal 
application  at  the  moment,  which  has  kept  that  single 
performance  a  more  fragrant  memory  than  many  much 
more  portentous  first  nights.  At  any  rate,  I  can  speak 
for  myself." 

*^  ^  ^  ^ 

*i*  '^  *i*  ^1% 

But,  sad  to  relate,  I  overworked  with  Ben  Greet. 
I  caught  chill  upon  chill  acting  in  his  open-air  plays 
in  the  wet  grass;  and  at  last  I  had  to  go  home  very 


70       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

seriously  ill.  My  voice  went  for  seven  months,  and 
for  many  weeks  I  had  to  write  on  a  slate.  My  sing- 
ing voice  never  returned.  It  was  dreadful — and  I 
was  heartbroken.  I  could  not  speak  to  the  children, 
if  I  played  with  them  I  tired,  and  I  could  only  take 
them  for  very  short  walks.  Grief  and  loneliness 
overpowered  me — I  was  very  unhappy. 

The  following  is  Pat's  letter,  when  he  heard  the 
news  of  my  illness.  It  will  be  seen  that  from  Sep- 
tember, 1890,  to  March,  1891,  I  had  had  no  word 
from  him.  My  health  had  broken  down,  my  voice 
gone,  all  thought  of  acting  had  to  be  given  up,  Pat 
had  not  been  able  to  send  money  or  write  for  six 
months. 


"c/'o  H.  H.  the  Administrator, 
"Fort  Salisbury, 
"Mashonaland, 

"7th  January,   1891. 
"My  own  darling  wife, 

"At  last  I  have  time  to  send  you  a  line.  I  have  been 
on  the  rush  ever  since  I  last  wrote  in  August,  and  have 
only  just  reached  this  place.  Soon  after  writing  to  you 
I  started  with  Mr.  Colquhoun  for  Manica,  went  down 
with  him  to  Mutassa,  where  he  got  the  treaty  with  the 
Manica  King,  over  which  so  much  fuss  has  been  made 
in  the  papers.  He  then  sent  me  post  haste  by  myself  to 
ride  to  Fort  Churter,  a  distance  of  120  miles  as  the 
crow  flies — through  dense  bush,  over  many  mountains 
and  across  several  large  rivers — to  take  a  message,  re- 
porting the  getting  of  the  treaty,   to  be  forwarded   to 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       71 

Mr.  Rhodes  in  Kimberley.  I  had  then  to  return  im- 
mediately and  meet  him  at  the  Kraal  of  a  chief  named 
Gotos,  some  eighty  miles  away  from  Mutassa.  This  I 
did,  and  was  at  once  sent  again  by  himself  with  a  Bamang- 
wato  boy  to  go  to  Mutassa  and  remain  as  the  Company's 
representative  until  Mr.  Colquhoun  sent  someone  to  re- 
lieve me.  I  had  only  got  one  day  away  on  my  way  to 
Mutassa  when  a  man  was  sent  after  me  to  recall  me,  ow- 
ing to  a  dispatch  having  been  received  that  the  Portuguese 
Convention  had  been  signed — a  mistake,  as  it  happened — 
Mr.  Colquhoun  then  sent  me  off  to  report  verbally  to 
Mr.  Rhodes,  who  had  started  on  a  tour  through  Bech- 
uanaland  with  the  Governor,  as  to  the  proceedings  of  the 
Manica  Mission.  In  eleven  days  I  rode  a  distance  of 
600  miles  to  Palapye,  the  chief  Mangwato  town,  where 
I  met  Mr.  Rhodes  and  the  Governor,  Sir  Henry  Lock. 
Mr.  Rhodes  was  very  kind  and  very  pleased  to  see  me, 
the  first  member  of  the  Pioneer  Expedition  who  had  come 
down.  I  was  three  days  with  him,  and  he  then  sent  me 
down  to  Kimberley  by  post  cart,  a  distance  of  700  miles, 
travelling  day  and  night,  to  see  the  Secretary  of  the  Com- 
pany and  report  verbally. 

"I  was  one  week  in  Kimberley,  during  which  I  had  not 
one  half-hour  to  myself,  being  the  first  pioneer  down  from 
Mashonaland — interviewed  by  newspapers  and  individ- 
uals of  all  sorts  in  the  very  early  morning,  at  the  office  all 
day  giving  information,  feted  and  lionised  with  dinners, 
etc.,  at  night — sickening,  I  can  tell  you,  darling,  after 
the  grand  free,  healthy  open-air  life  I  had  been  leading 
so  long.  I  was  really  glad  when  I  turned  my  back  on 
Kimberley.  On  my  return  journey,  I  was  delayed  a 
week  at  a  place  called  Vryburg,  doing  business  for  the 
Company,  travelled  on  to  Palapye  by  post  cart,  and  be- 
tween that  place  and  Fort  Tuli,  Dr.  Jamieson,  the  local 


72       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

Managing  Director,  caught  me  up,  and  1  drove  up  with 
him  to  this  place  in  a  Cape  cart,  and  arrived  here  two 
days  ago. 

"Sweetheart,  I  am  afraid  this  is  a  very  egotistical 
letter,  but  I  am  giving  you  a  brief  outline  of  how  my  life 
has  been  spent  these  last  four  months.  Next  mail  I  hope 
to  be  able  to  send  you  a  long  detailed  account,  for  1 
have  had  many  curious  experiences. 

"I  have  a  splendid  chance  of  making  a  large  sum  of 
money  In  a  little  time.  We,  that  Is,  Mr.  Cok]uhoun's 
staff,  have  sent  out  two  splendid  prospectors,  fully 
equipped  to  peg  out  and  develop  our  claims.  They  have 
gone  out  under  the  wing  of  Mr.  Selous*,  who  is  taking 
them  to  a  very  rich  district  only  known  to  himself  and 
Mauch,  the  German  Geologist  and  Explorer,  and  not  dis- 
covered as  yet  by  the  prospectors  who  came  up  with  us. 

"Splendid  reports  are  coming  in  from  all  round  about 
the  gold  prospects. 

"I  will  give  you  full  particulars  next  mail.  My  pros- 
pects now  are  a  thousand  times  better  than  they  ever 
were  before,  and  I  believe  that  in  a  year  or  a  year  and 
a  half  I  shall  be  able  to  come  home  to  you,  darling,  with, 
If  not  a  large,  at  least  a  fortune. 

"Darling,  I  have  just  had  your  letters  (three)  of 
September  30th,  October  ist,  and  November  13th 
handed  me.  They  terrify  me  to  think  how  nearly  I 
have  lost  you,  my  own  true  blessed  wife.  What  a  brute 
I  am  to  leave  you  all  alone  to  fight  so  hard  a  battle  at 
home.  And  now  I  am  afraid  that  most,  If  not  all,  the 
money  due  to  me  for  the  last  six  months  has  been  paid 
towards  my  share  of  the  expenses  of  our  prospecting 
party.  I  have  no  time  to  find  out  before  this  mail  goes, 
but  will  see  what  I  can  do  next  mail.  I  only  get  £15  a 
month  now   and  rations.     The   Company  will  not  pay 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       73 

high  salaries  at  first;  they  promise  that  in  a  few  months 
they  shall  be  increased  materially.   .   .   . 

"The  postriders  are  waiting.  Tell  Beo  *  that  I  have 
seen  lots  of  lions  and  tigers,  too  near  to  be  exactly 
pleasant,  but  have  not  had  to  fight  one  yet.  Perhaps  I 
may  kill  one  some  day  and  send  him  home  the  skin.  Tell 
him  I  have  also  seen  some  tremendous  elephants  and  hip- 
popotami, one  of  which  I  shot,  ostriches,  too,  are  pretty 
plentiful. 

"One  poor  fellow  was  killed  and  eaten  by  lions  the 
other  day,  and  they  have  killed  innumerable  horses, 
oxen,  sheep  etc.  Eight  lions  have  been  shot  round  about 
this  place  alone  since  the  Expedition  arrived.   .   .   . 

"This  is  a  wonderful  country.     Good-bye  my  own. 

"Yours  for  ever, 

"Pat. 
"P.  S. — Will  write  long,  long  letter  next  mail,  and  try  and 
send  some  money." 

This  letter  relieved  my  mind  about  Pat,  but  did 
not  help  the  financial  difficulties. 

My  people  became  very  anxious  about  my  serious 
state  of  health.  A  dear  niece  of  my  brother-in-law 
took  me  first  to  Dr.  Butler  Smyth,  who  found  a 
patch  on  the  lung,  and  then  to  Sir  Felix  Semon,  who 
at  that  time  was  throat  Physician  to  King  Edward. 

Neither  Sir  Felix  nor  I  ever  forgot  our  first  in- 
terview, for  when  he  told  me  I  had  phthisical 
laryngitis,  that  I  must  live  abroad  and  give  up  my 
profession,  I  stood  up  angrily,  saying  "You  must 
be  a  fool."     From  that  moment  a  warm  friendship 

*  Pronounced  Bayo — a  pet  name  given  to  my  little  son,  by  his  god- 
mother, Owney  Urquhart. 


74       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

sprang  up  between  us,  and  his  wife,  Giistchen,  with 
the  singing  voice  of  an  angel,  also  became  a  dear 
friend   of   mine. 

By  June,  1891,  I  had  received  more  cheerful  letters 
from  Pat,  and  my  health  began  to  improve. 

I  arranged  with  Mr.  Ben  Greet — through  Mrs. 
Percy  Wyndham's  promise  to  obtain  the  patronage  of 
royalty,  also  of  many  friends  of  hers — to  give  a  mat- 
inee of  As  You  Like  It  at  the  Shaftesbury  The- 
atre : — 

Shaftesbury  Theatre, 

Thursday,  June  i8th,  1891, 
2.30  P.  M, 
Under  the   distinguished  patronage  of 
H.  R.  H.  Princess  Christian  of  Schleswig  Holstein. 
Duchess  of  Abercorn  Lady  Brassey 

Earl   Pembroke  Lady   Fitzhardinge 

Countess    of   Pembroke      Lady   Alice   Gaisford 
Earl  Brownlow  Hon.  Percy  Wyndham 

Countess   Brownlow  Hon.   Mrs.   Percy  Wyndham 

Countess   Grosvenor  Mrs.     Grenfell     of     Taplow 

Countess  Spencer  Court 

Countess  Yarborough  Mrs  Grant,  of  Glen  Moris- 

ton 
Manager — Mr.  Ben  Greet. 


More  cheery  letters  came  from  Pat. 

"Fort  Salisbury, 

"22nd  March,  1891. 
"My  own  darling  wife, 

"I  fear  you  must  have  been  very  anxious  not  having 
heard  a  word  from  me  for  so  long.     We  have  been  shut 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       75 

off  from  all  communication  with  the  outer  world  for 
nearly  three  months  by  the  flooded  rivers,  and  the  last 
news  we  had  from  Kimberley  was  dated  i8th  December. 
I  sent  a  cheque  for  £30  to  a  friend  of  mine  at  Kimberley, 
Harold  Ingall,  on  9th  January,  asking  him  to  send  you 
a  draft  on  London  for  proceeds,  and  I  pray  God  it 
has  reached  you;  so  far  as  we  can  learn  that  was  the  last 
mail  that  got  through  the  rivers.  I  will  send  you  some 
more  money  as  soon  as  communication  is  opened.  It  is 
dangerous  sending  now  as  the  letters  only  lie  about  at  one 
of  the  rivers,  and  are  likely  to  get  lost. 

"This  letter  is  being  taken  right  across  Matabeleland 
to  Buluwayo  with  some  dispatches  from  the  Adminis- 
trator to  try  and  get  communication  that  way.  The  man 
who  is  bearing  them  is  a  Mr.  Usher,  who  has  just  come 
through  from  Buluwayo,  leaving  there  on  the  12th  Feb- 
ruary, bringing  some  cattle  which  were  purchased  from 
Lobengula  for  rations,  and  which  we  are  very  glad  to 
see,  I  can  tell  you,  as  we  are,  owing  to  the  road  being 
closed,  completely  out  of  food,  and  have  been  living  on 
what  we  could  get  from  the  natives — principally  Indian 
corn,  rice,  and  pumpkins,  for  some  time. 

"Usher  brings  very  good  news  from  Buluwayo,  the 
capital  of  the  Matabele;  he  was  present  at  the  'Big  Dance 
of  the  Nation,'  when  all  war  movements  for  the  year  are 
arranged,  and  although  several  of  the  Chiefs  asked  the 
King  to  be  allowed  to  march  their  impis  against  us  here 
in  Mashonaland,  he  resolutely  refused  to  allow  them, 
saying  that  he  was  well  pleased  with  what  the  English 
had  done  and  he  would  not  allow  them  to  be  interfered 
with.  We  have  also  letters  from  Mr.  Moffat,  the 
British  Resident  at  Buluwayo,  to  the  same  effect. 

"And  now,  darling,  I  have  the  commencement  of  some 
good  news  for  you.     I  told  you  in  a  previous  letter  that 


76       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

we  had  formed  a  Syndicate  for  pegging  out  the  claims 
we  get  as  pioneers,  and  had  engaged  two  first-rate  pros- 
pectors named  Arndt  and  Arnold.  Well,  we  had  a  letter 
the  other  day  from  Arndt  to  the  effect  that  he  had  dis- 
covered the  'Kaiser  Wilhelm'  goldfields,  which  have  been 
so  much  talked  about  all  over  the  world,  which  have 
been  only  seen  by  a  few  white  men  before,  amongst  them 
Mauch,  the  German  Geologist,  who  was  most  enthusiastic 
about  their  richness.  So  far  as  we  can  understand  from 
Arndt's  letter,  brought  in  by  a  native,  the  fields  lie  about 
100  or  120  miles  to  the  north-east  of  this  place,  and  are 
of  very  large  extent,  and  Arndt  says  that  having  only 
just  seen  the  fields,  he  did  not  like  to  say  much,  but 
he  considered  that  they  were  of  the  finest  formation 
that  he  had  ever  seen  in  his  experience  of  over  20  years' 
prospecting.  So,  dear,  this  is  very  encouraging  news,  and 
everybody  here  is  congratulating  us,  and  saying  that  we 
are  sure  to  make  our  fortunes,  as  owing  to  the  difficul- 
ties of  travelling  the  rush  which  at  once  took  place  on  re- 
ceipt of  the  news  of  the  finding  of  fields  cannot  possibly 
get  there  for  two  or  three  weeks,  and  our  men  will  have 
the  fields  a  good  six  weeks  to  themselves  and  be  able 
to  take  the  pick  of  the  reefs. 

"Sweetheart,  I  pray  God  I  shall  be  able  to  make 
a  lot  of  money  to  be  able  to  come  home  and  make  you 
comfortable,  and  give  you  all  the  pleasures  that  I  long 
to,  to  repay  you  for  all  the  misery  and  discomfort  I  have 
put  you  to.   .   .   . 

"To  return  to  Mashonaland,  every  day  brings  in  fresh 
reports  of  the  finding  of  gold,  everybody  here  is  enthus- 
iastic, and  I  really  think  there  is  a  grand  future  for  the 
country.  Silver  has  also  been  found,  and  I  am  told 
some  rich  tin  reefs,  and  the  country  seems  to  abound  in 
all  kinds  of  minerals. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       ^-j 

"Then  it  is  a  magnificent  country  for  farming,  and  I 
think  will  produce  everything,  and  as  grazing  land  it  is 
splendid — an  undulating  prairie,  well  wooded  arid 
watered,  and  with  a  splendid  rich  grass,  on  which  cattle 
grow  very  fat.  The  only  drawback  to  the  country  is 
the  quantity  of  rain — from  end  of  November  to  probably 
end  of  this  month  an  enormous  amount  of  rain  falls, 
and  during  these  months  there  is  a  great  deal  of  malarial 
fever  knocking  about.  A  great  many  of  the  men  have 
had  severe  attacks,  and  a  few  have  died.  Fortunately, 
I  have  escaped  altogether.  It  seems  healthy  all  the 
year  round  at  Fort  Salisbury  on  the  high  Veldt,  but  as 
soon  as  you  get  off  the  high  Veldt  on  to  the  low  ground 
it  becomes  very  unhealthy.  Most  of  the  men  have  got 
fever  from  being  down  in  the  low  country  during  the 
wet  season.  .  .  . 

"Pat  Campbell." 

"Administrator's  Office, 

"Fort  Salisbury, 
"3rd  June,    1 89 1. 


<( 


"I  received  your  letters  of  loth  and  nth  March  last 
mail,  and  loved  them  so,  and  my  Beo's  letter.  ...  I  told 
you  in  my  last  letter  of  our  fight  with  the  Portuguese. 
I  have  since  had  further  particulars.  We  only  had  47 
men  and  a  seven-pounder,  and  they  had  100  Europeans 
and  300  black  soldiers.  We,  of  course,  had  the  best 
position  and,  strange  to  say,  did  not  have  a  man  wounded. 
They  lost  two  officers  and  13  white  men  and  about  50 
black.  We  took  nine  quick-firing  guns  from  them;  they 
only  managed  to  take  two  away  with  them. 

"Some  of  our  men  had  wonderful  escapes;  they  had  to 
go  out  and  cut  down  trees  under  a  heavy  fire  to  get  the 


78       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

gun  into  action.  One  man  had  his  axe  knocked  out  of 
his  hand  by  a  bullet,  another,  TuUoch,  was  chopping 
down  a  tree,  and  the  bullets  knocked  splinters  out  of  it. 
Young  Morier  a  friend  of  mine,  son  of  Sir  R.  Morier,  the 
•Russian  Ambassador,  was  leaning  his  rifle  against  a  tree 
to  take  aim,  when  a  bullet  struck  the  tree,  knocking  a 
large  splinter  into  his  face,  and  giving  him  a  bad  black 
eye.  A  bullet  went  through  the  timber  of  the  big  gun 
while  they  were  all  standing  round  working  it  and  entered 
a  cartridge,  but  fortunately  did  not  explode  it. 

"The  Portuguese  used  the  new  magazine  rifle,  which 
shoots  splendidly.  They  were  thoroughly  beaten,  altho' 
the  fight  only  lasted  two  hours,  and  their  officers  behaved 
very  well,  and  cleared  off  pell-mell  during  the  night, 
leaving  the  nine  big  guns  behind  them.  They  may  come 
on  again,  but  it  will  be  some  time  before  they  can  move, 
as  the  natives  are  afraid  to  carry  for  them. 

"One  of  our  prospectors  has  pegged  out  15  good 
claims,  the  first  start  for  my  fortune,  darling.  I  hope 
they  will  turn  out  good.  The  fighting,  etc.,  is  keeping  the 
country  back  fearfully.   .   .   ." 

After  the  matinee  of  As  You  Like  It,  in  which  I 
was  so  valiantly  helped  by  Mrs.  Percy  Wyndham, 
I  was  engaged,  on  the  advice  of  Mr.  Clement  Scott 
and  Mr.  Ben  Greet,  by  the  Messrs.  Gatti  to  play  at 
the  Adelphi  in  The  Trumpet  Call,  by  Mr.  George 
R.  Sims  and  Mr.  Robert  Buchanan. 

On  the  first  night  of  this  play,  in  a  dark  scene, 
my  ragged  black  skirt  fell  down  around  my  feet  for 
I  wore  no  petticoat. 

The  momentary  sounds  of  levity  from  the  audience 
made  me  glare  at  them  in  indignation:  I  continued 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       79 

my  tragic  scene,  pulling  up  my  skirt  and  holding  it 
together,  behind  me,  with  one  hand,  as  I  went  up  a 
narrow  flight  of  stairs  along  a  corridor — too  lost  in 
my  role  to  feel  dismayed.  My  exit  line — "Oh  God, 
may  I  never  wake  again,"  I  hoped  had  not  been 
spoiled.* 

Then  there  were  also  The  Lights  of  Home,  The 
White  Rose,  and  The  Black  Domino  by  the  same 
authors. 

I  was  very  delicate,  and  often  out  of  the  cast, 
with  the  return  of  loss  of  voice;  once  I  was  away  for 
six  weeks.  Eventually  I  fell  ill  with  typhoid 
fever. 

I  remember  how  it  began.  It  was  a  Saturday; 
we  had  played  two  performances;  during  these  per- 
formances I  kept  feeling  a  strange  icy  sensation  on 
the  top  of  my  head,  gradually  creeping  down  my 
spine.  I  said  to  some  of  the  company,  "Don't  come 
near  me,  I  am  sure  I  am  going  to  be  very  ill,  and  it 
may  be  something  catching." 

When  I  went  back  to  my  rooms  after  the  perform- 
ance, these  shiverings  became  wofse.  I  lay  awake 
all  night  longing  for  the  daylight.  I  felt,  if  the  day 
did  not  come  quickly,  I  would  be  too  ill  ever  to  get 
home  to  my  children,  and  to  my  mother. 

When  the  landlady  came  to  my  room  in  the  morn- 
ing, she  helped  me  into  my  clothes.     I  could  scarcely 

*  It  is  characteristic  of  a  certain  side  of  human  nature  that  I  received 
more  than  one  anonymous  post-card,  saying  the  writer  was  sure  I  had 
arranged    the    denouement   to   make   certain    of   a    success. 


8o       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

stand  or  see.  She  called  a  hansom  cab,  helped  me 
into  it,  and  told  the  man  to  drive  to  "Newcote,"  my 
uncle's  house  in  Dulwich. 

The  drive  seemed  interminable,  and  my  eyes  shut 
against  my  will.  When  the  hansom  cab  arrived 
at  the  gate,  I  couldn't  move  my  hands  or  body.  The 
man  got  down  from  the  box  and  rang  the  bell,  and 
the  servant  and  the  man  helped  me  out.  My  mother 
came  into  the  hall  with  the  children.  I  remember 
saying,  "Mother,  I  am  ill,"  and  the  feeling  of  not 
being  able  to  stoop  down  and  kiss  the  children. 

Then  dark  nights  followed,  people  sitting  near  my 
bed,  shaded  candles,  doctors  standing  over  me — nine 
days  uncertainty — and  then  typhoid  fever  pro- 
nounced. I  can  see  the  frightened  faces  that  de- 
pressed me,  and  made  me  angry.  I  had  a  desire  to 
sing  as  loud  as  I  could  to  keep  alive;  and  then  to 
listen  proudly  to  myself  as  I  shouted.  1  was  in  raging 
delirium  for  days  and  weeks.  At  last  there  was  a 
long  silence,  and  I  heard  a  voice  quite  close  to  me  say 
suddenly  the  words  "She  is  sinking."  At  the  sound 
of  those  words  something  flared  like  a  flame  of  fire 
through  me;  the  thought,  "I  cannot  die,  there  are 
the  children,"  filled  my  brain. 

I  was  told  the  doctor  did  not  hesitate,  he  noticed 
a  change  and  poured  neat  brandy  from  the  bottle 
down  my  throat.  They  told  me  I  struggled,  fighting 
back  to  life,  and  I  am  sure  this  is  the  truth.  I  re- 
member the  struggle. 

Then  I  began  to  get  better.     I  slept  for  hours  and 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       8i 

hours.  Gradually  I  noticed  the  worn  expression  in 
the  faces  of  those  who  had  nursed  me.  What,  in- 
deed, must  my  mother,  and  my  dear  uncle,  and  others 
of  the  family  not  have  suffered?  I  was  little  more 
than  a  girl;  my  children  scarcely  more  than  babies; 
my  husband  in  Africa,  not  able  to  send  me  money. 
My  uncle  earned  under  £200  a  year;  my  mother  had 
no  income  of  her  own;  and  all  thought  of  my» career 
seemed  over. 

My  bodily  strength  returned,  but  my  nerves  were 
never  again  the  same:  something  snapped  that  never 
mended.  The  sweetness  and  the  calm  strong  faith 
of  youth,  and  the  belief  that  I  could  depend  upon 
Pat  had  gone  forever.  The  months  and  years  of 
parting  from  him,  the  hard  work,  insufficient  food, 
insufficient  rest,  and  the  strain  of  my  long  illness  had 
killed  it  all. 

I  realised,  too,  the  closeness  of  death,  and  the  re- 
sponsibility of  my  children  tore  at  my  heart. 

Four  months  afterwards  I  played  The  Second 
Mrs.  Tanqueray,  which  play,  I  suppose,  is  the  most 
successful  modern  English  play  of  the  century. 


CHAPTER  V. 

IT  was  necessary  for  me  to  act  again  as  soon  as 
possible.  I  was  still  physically  feeble,  white  and 
fragile — my  hair  only  just  beginning  to  grow 
again — but  I  could  not  refuse  the  Messrs.  Gatti  when 
they  sent  for  me  to  play  the  role  of  "Clarice  Berton" 
in  The  Black  Domino,  at  a  salary  of  £8  a  week. 

The  play  was  badly  reviewed,  the  Messrs.  Gatti 
attributing  the  failure  in  great  part  to  me.  They 
said  my  voice  was  weak,  my  gestures  ineffective,  and 
nothing  I  said  or  did  "got  over  the  footlights":  and 
they  gave  me  my  fortnight's  notice.  This  was  a 
most  tragic  moment  for  me;  money  was  urgently 
needed,  my  illness  having  cost  so  much,  and  the  load 
of  debt  to  doctor  and  chemist  had  to  be  lifted. 

Circumstances  were  fiercely  against  me,  but  it 
will  be  seen  Fate  lent  a  hand  to  fight  for  me. 

On  a  certain  evening  Mr-s.  Alexander  and  Mr. 
Graham  Robertson  came  to  the  Adelphi  Theatre. 
Mrs.  Alexander  knew  that  her  husband  was  search- 
ing for  an  actress  to  play  the  part  in  Mr.  Pinero's 
new  play  The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray.  It  may  have 
been  chance  that  sent  these  two  to  the  play  that  night, 
or  Mrs.  Alexander  may  have  read  in  the  paper  that 
I  was  "beautiful,"  and  "had  a  rare  distinction,  ele- 
gance and  power" — I  still  thought  myself  scraggy 

82 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       83 

and  plain — this  I  cannot  say.  But  in  spite  of  my 
"weak  voice"  and  "feeble  gestures,"  personality,  or 
my  looks,  or  some  histrionic  talent  I  possessed,  came 
across  the  footlights,  and  sent  these  two  back  to  Mr. 
Alexander,  with  the  news  that  an  actress  exactly 
suited  to  the  new  play  of  Mr.  Pinero  was  to  be 
seen  at  the  Adelphi  Theatre. 

Mr.  Alexander  wrote  making  an  appointment  for 
me  to  meet  both  him,,  and  Mr.  Pinero,  at  the  St. 
James's  Theatre. 

I  think  my  resolution  was  strengthened  by  the 
bitterness  of  my  disappointment  at  having  received 
my  notice  at  the  Adelphi.  The  mixture  of  fearless- 
ness and  fragility,  the  whiteness  of  my  face,  some 
strange  and  elusive  charm,  owing  to  my  Italian  strain 
no  doubt,  interested  my  future  manager. 

I  dressed  carefully — I  remember  only  my  little 
yellow  straw  bonnet  trimmed  with  cherries  and  a 
narrow  black  velvet  ribbon  under  my  chin  tied  under 
my  left  ear,  with  long  narrow  ends  accentuating  the 
length  of  my  neck. 

In  those  days  most  women  hid  their  throats  in  folds 
of  ecru  net  in  the  fashion  of  the  lovely  Marchioness 
of  Granby.  My  throat  was  always  bare,  or  in 
American  journalistic  language  "sprang  visibly  from 
between  her  shoulders  proud  to  bear  her  lovely 
head."     I  was  tall  and  exceptionally  slight. 

After  a  few  questions  as  to  what  I  had  done  in 
the  way  of  theatrical  work,  Mr.  Pinero  read  the  play 
to    me,    beginning    at    the    famous    moment   when 


84       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

Paula  enters  after  Mr.  Tanqueray's  farewell  din- 
ner to  his  friends. 

The  reality  of  the  play  after  the  melodrama  I 
had  striven  with  at  the  Adelphi,  made  my  heart 
bound  with  joy,  and  no  doubt  I  showed  some  intelli- 
gent and  vivid  appreciation,  though  I  did  not  at 
this  reading,  for  a  moment  understand  what  Paula's 
life  was.  Did  I  ever  grasp  it  in  my  interpretation: 
I  wonder?  .  .  . 

Both  Mr.  Pinero  and  Mr.  Alexander  seemed  anx- 
ious to  engage  me. 

Full  of  enthusiasm  I  went  back  to  the  Messrs. 
Gatti  to  tell  them  of  my  good  fortune,  and  of  the 
wonderful  new  role  offered  me.  I  remember  the 
worried  expression  on  their  kind  faces  and  my  sink- 
ing heart  as  they  said,  ''What's  good  enough  for  Mr. 
Pinero  is  good  enough  for  us."  They  withdrew 
their  notice,  and  my  contract  with  them  bound  me  to 
continue  playing  my  part  at  the  Adelphi  in  The 
Black  Domino. 

The  days  dragged  on,  the  play  at  the  Adelphi  re- 
maining a  failure:  at  last  the  Messrs.  Gatti  definitely 
resolved  to  take  it  ofif.  They  sent  for  me  again  and 
said,  "If  you  are  still  wanted  at  the  St.  James's  you 
can  go  at  the  end  of  a  fortnight." 

Then  followed  another  interview  with  Mr.  Alex- 
ander, who  told  me  it  was  too  late;  my  friend  Miss 
Elisabeth  Robins  had  been  engaged  for  the  role  of 
"Paula  Tanqueray." 

But  Mr.  Pinero  was  determined  to  get  me  if  pos- 


AS    CLARICE   IN   ""THE   BLACK   DOMINO 


.Tr»" 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       85 

sible.  The  matter  was  put  by  them  both  frankly  to 
Miss  Robins,  who,  with  the  most  remarkable  and 
characteristic  generosity,  which  is  shown  in  the  fol- 
lowing letter,  surrendered  the  role  to  me : — 

"May  2nd,  1893. 
"Dear  Stella, 

"I  suppose  Mr.  Alexander  has  told  you  of  what  oc- 
curred Sunday  and  yesterday.  I  congratulate  you  upon 
your  splendid  fortune  in  having  The  Second  Mrs.  Tan- 
queray  to  play. 

"From  what  I  heard  read  of  the  part,  it  is  the  kind  of 
thing  that  comes  along  once  in  an  actress'  lifetime,  seldom 
oftener,  and  that  it  has  come  to  yon  is  my  best  conso- 
lation for  having  lost  it  myself.  You  will  play  it  bril- 
liantly and  your  loyal  service  in  less  congenial  roles  will 
find  its  reward  in  this  glorious  new  opportunity.  There 
is  to  my  mind  no  woman  in  London  so  enviable  at  this 
moment,  dear  savage,  as  you. 

"Keep  well  and  strong. 

"Yours  affectionately  always, 

"E.  R." 


I  had  met  Miss  Robins  first  at  the  Adelphi,  where 
she  played  the  leading  role  in  The  Trumpet  Call 
with  me.  I  delighted  in  her  seriousness  and  clever- 
ness. She  was  the  first  intellectual  I  had  met  on  the 
stage. 

The  peculiar  quality  of  Miss  Elizabeth  Robins' 
dramatic  gift  was  the  swiftness  with  which  she  suc- 
ceeded  in   sending  thought  across   the     footlights; 


86       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

emotion  took  a  second   place,   personality  a  third. 

I  thought  her  finest  performance  was  in  The  Mas- 
ter Builder,  and  it  was  the  most  intellectually  com- 
prehensive piece  of  work  I  had  ever  seen  on  the 
English  stage. 

Most  successful  actors  and  actresses  are  entirely 
dependent  upon  personality  for  their  effect,  aided 
as  the  case  may  be,  by  the  charm  of  their  diction  or 
their  natural  grace  of  gesture,  or  personal  beauty. 
Mediocre  artists  have  risen  to  a  considerable  position 
on  this  quality  of  "personality."  They  never  tran- 
scend it.  Plays  are  written  around  it,  and  many 
plays  have  been  sacrificed  to  it.  In  an  Ibsen  play 
it  is  a  very  great  misfortune,  imprisoning  the  artist 
in  his  own  narrow  circle  of  individualism. 

I  was  engaged  at  a  salary  of  £15  a  week,  at  a  fort- 
night's notice,  and  to  rehearse  on  approval.  So  I 
can  scarcely  flatter  myself  that  either  Mr.  Pinero  or 
Mr.  George  Alexander  thought  anything  of  me  be- 
yond my  looks.  The  salary  seemed  very  generous 
to  me  after  my  £8  a  week  at  the  Adelphi. 

Both  author  and  manager  were  worried  and  anx- 
ious at  rehearsals.  I  heard  afterwards  that  more 
than  one  management  had  refused  The  Second  Mrs. 
Tanqueray,  considering  the  play  too  risque. 

I  was  an  amateur  so  far  as  trained  technique  went. 
And  I  was  wilful,  self-opinionated,  strangely  sensi- 
tive, impatient,  easily  offended,  with  nerves  strained 
by  illness,     No  doubt  they  hoped  I  was  teachable. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       87 

The  first  rehearsals  were  very  difficult  for  me.  A 
certain  cold  "official"  manner,  which  was  the  pecu- 
liarity of  Mr.  Alexander's  style,  was  very  unsympa- 
thetic to  me,  whilst  my  unreasonable  ways,  wanting 
always  to  do,  instead  of  to  listen — feeling  their 
wishes  hindered  my  own  imagination — must  have 
been  tiresome  beyond  words. 

At  first  they  treated  me  as  a  child  that  must  be 
taught  its  ABC.  I  was  given  no  free  rein.  My 
passionate  longing  for  beauty,  my  uncontrollable 
"sense  of  humour" — or  whatever  it  was  that  made 
me  quickly  recognise  the  ludicrous  and  artificial — 
was  snubbed.  A  snub  shattered  me,  unless  at  the 
moment  my  spirits  were  high  enough,  to  give  me 
the  courage  to  go  one  better. 

Such  remarks  as  "Don't  forget  you  are  not  playing 
at  the  Adelphi  now,  but  at  the  St.  James's,"  gave  me 
a  wild  desire  to  laugh  and  play  the  fool;  always  an 
element  in  me  that  had  to  be  reckoned  with  in  those 
days,  and  which  surrounded  me  in  a  sea  of  extrava- 
gant anecdotes. 

The  Company  included  among  many  distinguished 
artists  the  lovely  Maude  Millet,  with  her  rare  and 
sweet  nature  and  eyes  "like  the  heavens  in  June" — ^ 
every  Eton  and  Harrow  boy  of  the  time  could  show' 
you  a  picture  of  her  pretty  face  as  she  looked  in 
Sweet  Lavender.  I  believe  she  made  the  fortune 
of  W.  Downey,  the  photographer, — Cyril  Maude, 
sympathetic   and   chivalrous,    and   dear   Nutcombe 


88       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

Gould,*  the  most  gentle  and  refined  of  creatures, 
who  in  old  clothes  and  patched  boots  looked  the  most 
distinguished  man  on  the  stage. 

Perhaps  my  youth,  my  lack  of  professional  tricks, 
my  disposition  to  laugh  and  say  funny  things  en- 
deared me  to  the  company.  I  know  they  were  all 
affectionate,  kind,  and  friendly. 

Artists  always  feel  eager  and  interested  when  they 
come  across  original  work. 

I  remember  years  later  an  actor  f  at  a  rehearsal 
I  was  taking  saying  to  me,  "Yes,  yes,  quite  so,  thank 
you,  I  understand,"  for  at  least  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
then  my  impatient,  "Well,  why  don't  you  do  it?" 
and  his  very  polite  reply,  as  he  looked  at  me  through 
an  eye-glass,  "I  wonder  if  you  would  mind  my  show- 
ing you  for  one  moment  what  I  myself  would  like 
to  do?"  And  then  he  showed  me.  I  remember  our 
eyes  met,  and  how  merrily  I  laughed  in  happy  rec- 
ognition of  his  skill.  There  being  no  part  for  him 
in  my  next  production,  and  wishing  to  retain  his 
services,  I  let  him  cross  the  stage  as  Gerald  du 
Maurier's  valet,  with  a  coat  over  his  arm,  humming 
a  scrap  of  an  Irish  song — he  brought  down  the  house. 

I  took  him  in  my  Company  to  America  at  a  sal- 
ary of  £15  a  week,  and  I  left  him  there  at  a  salary  of 
£100,  and  he  is  there  still,  at  a  salary  of  £200  or 
£300. 

*  It  was  a   principle  with   Mr.   Nutcombe   Gould   never  to  wear  new 
clothes  on   the   stage. 

t  Mr.  George   Arliss. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       89 

At  last  the  rehearsal  of  the  third  act  reached  the 
point  where  the  stage  direction  reads: — "She  sits 
at  the  piano  and  strums  a  valse."  Now  my  mother 
had  never  allowed  any  of  her  children  to  strum. 
She  insisted  on  all  art  being  treated  with  reverence, 
and  impressed  upon  us  that  the  piano  was  not  a  toy. 
The  painful  trifling  known  as  strumming  was  for- 
bidden in  our  home.  Many  a  time  have  I  known 
the  piano  locked — someone  had  been  punished. 

I  played  rather  well  and  with  a  passionate  love  of 
touch  and  tone,  which  gained  me  my  scholarship 
at  the  Guildhall  School  of  Music;  but  I  am  not  a 
muscian  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word. 

I  sat  down  to  the  piano  hesitatingly,  asking  twice 
to  be  excused,  until  I  had  prepared  something  suit- 
able. A  voice  from  the  stalls:  "We  would  like  to 
hear  whether  you  can  play."  This  oflfended  me. 
Holding  my  book  in  my  right  hand,  with  my  left 
I  played  beautifully — and  with  impertinence — a 
piece  written  by  a  girl  friend  of  mine.  This  moment 
changed  the  whole  temper  of  the  rehearsals.  Those 
who  listened  knew  that  my  playing  must  be  the  out- 
come of  serious  study,  and  some  understanding  of  art; 
above  all  that  my  playing  would  invest  the  part  of 
"Paula"  with  not  a  little  glamour. 

I  remember  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw  in  criticising  the 
play  saying  something  like  this: — "It  was  all  about 
a  poor  lady  who  committed  suicide  because  they 
wouldn't  let  her  finish  playing  her  piece  at  the  piano." 

I  was  quite  conscious  of  the  effect  I  was  produc- 


90       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

ing.  I  caught  sight  of  Nutcombe  Gould's  face  and 
Cyril  Maude's  in  the  "wings,"  and  I  prolonged  the 
surprise  for  about  three  minutes.  Mr.  Pinero  and 
Mr.  Alexander  were  in  the  stalls;  at  last  from  the 
darkness  an  expressionless  voice  said.  "That  will 
do  Mrs.  Campbell,  we  will  go  on  with  the  rehearsal, 
please!"  From  that  moment  there  was  a  difference. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  Mr.  Pinero  especially  treated 
me  with  more  confidence.  I  didn't  feel  "from  the 
Adelphi"  any  more.  He  caught  hold  of  my  arm 
and  called  me  "dear  child,"  and  I  felt  I  had  his  trust. 

It  is  this  brilliant  author's  habit  to  think  out  and 
impose  upon  his  interpreters  every  piece  of  charac- 
terisation— every  inflection ;  very  rarely  does  he  al- 
low the  "business"  he  has  conceived  to  be  altered, 
many  characteristic  readings,  and  gestures,  which 
have  been  attributed  to  the  talent,  and  sometimes  it 
must  be  admitted  humbly — to  the  want  of  sensitive 
good  taste  of  the  actors — have  been  carefully  taught 
them  by  the  author.  It  was,  therefore,  a  remark- 
able evidence  of  some  good  impression  I  had  made, 
when  at  a  certain  moment  of  the  play  Mr.  Pinero 
said: — "Here  in  your  anger,  you  sweep  off  the  bric- 
a-brac  and  photographs  from  the  piano."  I  replied 
in  horror,  "Oh,  I  could  not  make  her  rough  and  ugly 
with  her  hands,  however  angry  she  is."  He  looked 
at  me  gently  and  replied,  "All  right,  my  child,  do 
as  you  like." 

The  memory  of  the  awful  fatigue  of  the  rehears- 
als remains  with  me.     I  used  to  get  in  a  state  of 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       91 

alarming  exhaustion,  a  sudden  condition  that  over- 
came me  at  times  for  some  years  afterwards.  This, 
I  suppose,  had  something  to  do  with  the  effect  on 
my  heart  of  the  typhoid  fever.  On  one  occasion  Mr. 
Pinero  brought  me  Brand's  Essence  of  Beef,  not 
forgetting  the  necessary  spoon,  and  stood  by  me 
while  I  swallowed  it,  treating  me  with  ever-increas- 
ing gentleness. 

The  dressing  of  the  part  was  an  important  one; 
the  stiffish  fashion  in  which  Mrs.  Alexander  insisted 
on  my  arranging  my  hair  was  dreadful  to  me.  I 
argued  that  no  woman  could  go  through  four  acts  of 
such  tumultuous  passions,  eventually  committing  sui- 
cide, with  a  tidy  head,  unless  she  wore  a  wig.  For- 
tunately my  hair  as  the  play  proceeded,  behaved  as 
it  chose. 

The  dresses  were  beautiful  of  the  time;  I  could 
feel  natural,  and  move  naturally  in  them. 

The  rule  of  the  theatre  was  to  wear  a  cotton  wrap 
over  you,  until  your  cue  for  entrance.  It  fidgeted 
me,  having  a  candlesnuffer  effect  upon  me.  I  was 
permitted  not  to  wear  it,  to  the  amusement  of  the 
others.  Indeed,  I  was  a  most  spoiled  and  difficult 
creature.  What  a  National  Theatre  would  have 
done  with  me  I  cannot  imagine. 

Then  came  the  first  of  the  two  dress  rehearsals, 
no  one  being  permitted  into  the  auditorium  except 
Mr.  Pinero,  and  he  was  to  sit  alone  in  the  dress 
circle  with  a  lantern,  a  notebook,  and  a  pencil. 

I  implored  him  not  to  speak  to  me,  and  I  would 


92       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

play  the  part  for  him.  I  kept  my  word,  and  to  that 
dark,  silent  house  and  that  solitary  man  I  poured  out 
my  "secret"  with  the  fire  and  feeling  of  my  tempera- 
ment and  imagination.  I  wanted  to  plead  for 
"Paula,"  I  wanted  her  to  be  forgiven  and  remem- 
bered. Cyril  Maude  and  Maude  Millet  implied 
by  a  furtive  squeeze  of  my  hand,  now  and  then,  that 
I  was  doing  well.  Mr.  Alexander's  official  dignity 
was  of  priceless  value  to  the  play. 

I  tried  from  the  beginning  to  lift  "Paula"  a  little 
off  the  earth,  to  make  her  not  merely  a  neurotic  type; 
to  give  her  a  conscience,  a  soul.  I  think  it  will  be 
admitted  that  after  the  play  had  run  many  weeks, 
I  played  "Paula"  better  from  this  point  of  view. 

Some  members  of  the  Garrick  Club  will  remember 
how  Mr.  Pinero  arrived  there  after  this  rehearsal, 
and  said  wonderful  things  of  "the  fragile  creature 
of  Italian  origin."  I  knew  nothing  of  this  at  the 
time. 

A  second  dress  rehearsal  was  called.  This  time 
there  were  other  people  sitting  in  the  stalls,  scattered 
here  and  there.  With  some  strange  professional  in- 
stinct of  self-preservation,  I  knew  I  was  too  nervously 
exhausted  to  act  the  part  again  before  the  first  night. 
I  was  spiritless,  flat,  dull,  and  everyone  was  de- 
pressed. The  actors  seemed  to  understand,  and 
smiled  encouragingly  as  I  grew  duller,  and  still 
more  dull  and  flat.  Mr.  Pinero  did  not  come  near 
me.  He  knew  that  I  was  worn  out,  and  that  so  far 
as  I  was  concerned  it  was  a  "toss  up." 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       93 

When  I  went  back  to  my  rooms  in  Devonshire 
Street  I  slipped  into  bed  in  misery,  knowing  that 
everyone  was  disappointed  in  me,  and  /  could  not 
help  it.  I  lay  awake  wondering  how  it  was  that 
just  physical  fatigue  made  it  impossible  for  me  to 
give  of  my  best — why  there  had  been  no  radiance, 
no  charm,  no  swiftness;  and  I  said  to  myself,  now  I 
know  why  some  actors  drink — and  I  had  a  tragic 
sense  of  the  snare — of  the  trap  of  it  all.  I  wondered 
what  would  happen  if  that  awful  physical  flatness 
came  over  me  on  the  first  night.  I  had  forgotten, 
or  not  counted  upon,  the  inspiration  and  encourage- 
ment of  a  first-night  London  audience! 

Towards  morning  I  fell  asleep  and  had  a  childish 
dream.  There  was  a  door  opposite  my  bed,  and  I 
dreamed  it  was  pushed  slowly  open,  and,  up  near 
the  top,  a  little  black  kitten  put  in  its  head.  I  awoke 
lau'ghing,  and  when  my  two  children  came  into  my 
bed,  I  told  them  about  my  lucky  dream.  And,  in- 
deed, if  a  black  cat  walking  across  the  stage,  entirely 
ruining  a  scene,  can  be  regarded  by  all  actors  as  a 
most  lucky  event,  how  much  more  should  a  black 
kitten  poking  its  head  high  up  through  a  door  in  a 
dream  on  the  morning  of  a  "first  night"  augur  suc- 
cess. 

One  other  sign  of  good  fortune  had  also  come  to 
me  from  my  pet  dog.  I  had  a  pug  at  the  time  called 
"She,"  a  devoted  creature.  One  day — while  I  was 
studying  the  part  of  the  play,  where  "Paula"  bursts 
into  a  fit  of  weeping,  I  could  get  neither  shape  nor 


94       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

form  into  my  sobbing.  I  was  so  eager  that  the  au- 
dience should  feel  that  "Paula's"  words,  "Give  me 
another  chance,"  were  a  cry  from  her  awakening 
soul  to  God ;  not  merely  a  woman  weeping  to  her 
husband — the  empty  noises,  the  moans  and  snuffles 
I  made  were  all  false  and  silly.  After  much  striv- 
ing I  thought  of  "breaking  up"  the  sounds  by  a 
natural  blowing  of  my  nose.  This  so  affected  poor 
"She"  that  she  howled  and  howled,  and  I  could  not 
stop  her  for  quite  a  long  time — I  felt  perhaps  I 
might  move  a  human  audience. 

Then  came  the  first  night.  I  put  my  children  to 
bed,  leaving  them  in  the  care  of  the  landlady.  They 
had  covered  me  with  their  hugs  and  kisses  and  wishes 
for  success,  and  remembering  the  black  kitten  and  the 
pug's  tribute,  I  went  down  to  the  theatre  with  "She" 
in  my  arms,  and  my  nerves  strung  up  with  that 
glorious  sense  of  a  battle  to  fight. 

"How  unnecessarily  noisy  the  audience  is,"  I 
thought,  as  the  play  proceeded.  After  the  scene  at 
the  second  act,  it  irritated  me  not  a  little.*  I  thought 
they  would  have  been  more  silent,  if  they  had  been 
more  deeply  moved  and  interested. 

This  is  how  someone  has  described  the  first-night 
impression  in  the  theatre: 

*  The  Globe  (May  28,  1893)  said:  "A  new  custom  seems  to  have 
sprung  up  amongst  first  nighters.  At  the  fall  of  the  curtain  on  the 
second  act  there  was  a  tremendous  outburst  of  applause.  The  curtain 
was  raised  again  and  again.  Mrs.  Campbell  had  taken  the  house  by 
storm.  Then  there  were  loud  calls  of  'author!'  Mr.  Pinero's  appear- 
ance, however,  was  not  made  until  the  final  fall  of  the  curtain." 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       9*; 

"From  the  moment  of  'Paula's'  entrance  in  a  beauti- 
ful cloak  she  held  the  audience  in  a  spell — her  natural- 
ness, her  truth,  her  intelligent  quickness,  her  beauty 
made  a  marvelous  combination — and  an  utterly  unex- 
pected one  to  the  greater  part  of  the  audience,  and  the 
effect  was  cumulative.  The  character  built  up  by  in- 
numerable small  touches,  both  by  the  author  and  the  in- 
terpreter, quickly  emerged  into  a  living  creature. 

"As  the  great  moments  of  the  play  were  reached  the 
audience  and  the  actress  were  carried  beyond  imaginative 
sympathy,  into  the  reality  of  a  human  crisis,  and  into 
the  very  heart  of  passionate  emotion." 

I  expect  this  is  what  happened  that  first  night; 
gradually  the  audience  realised  the  tragedy  of  poor 
Paula — how  her  love  for  ''Aubrey  Tanqueray"  had 
lit  up  the  dark  recesses  of  her  nature,  illuminating 
her  soul — how  in  her  struggle  to  subdue  her  jealousy, 
her  boredom — to  forget — to  begin  life  again — she 
at  last,  in  that  terrible  moment  when  she  looks  at 
herself  in  a  mirror,  and  cries  out  that  her  past  life  is 
written  indelibly  on  her  face,  and  that  her  husband 
will  always  see  it  there — realises  in  a  flash,  her  life 
has  unfitted  her  forever  to  grasp  and  hold  the  simple 
happiness  which  her  love  for  "Aubrey"  puts  within 
her  reach.  Her  soul  is  horror-stricken,  and  because 
her  higher  control  has  been  rendered  helpless,  she, 
in  her  anguish,  destroys  her  body. 

The  ovation  when  the  curtain  fell,  incredible  as  it 
may  seem,  was  lost  upon  me.  The  tremendous  ap- 
plause stupefied  me,  and  I  never  for  a  moment 
thought  a  share  of  it  was  mine.     Had  I  not  been 


96       MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

playing  only  a  fortnight  before  at  the  Adelphi — 
there  had  been  no  enthusiasm  then,  only  my  notice 
from  the  Messrs.  Gatti  for  "my  weak  voice"  and 
"feeble  gestures."  I  felt  it  was  all  for  the  author 
and  his  remarkable  play. 

In  spite  of  my  gratitude  to  Mr.  Pinero  I  did  not 
realise  what  his  play  had  done  for  me — the  tremen- 
dous opportunity  it  -had  given  me. 

Crowds  of  people  flocked  on  to  the  stage;  shy  and 
terrified  I  ran  up  to  my  dressing-room,  dressed 
quickly,  picked  up  my  dog,  and  went  back  to  my 
lodgings  worn  out  by  fatigue. 

The  next  morning  my  two  children  climbed  into 
my  bed.  I  told  them  all  about  the  applause,  and 
that  I  was  sure  the  play  would  have  a  long  run; 
we  remembered  about  the  black  kitten,  and  we  had 
breakfast  in  bed  for  a  treat,  where  later  Mrs.  Alex- 
ander found  us.  She  asked  me  why  I  had  left  the 
theatre,  and  told  me  I  had  made  a  great  personal 
success  and  my  name  famous. 

Mr.  Pinero  tells  me  that  after  the  first  act  he  went 
into  his  wife's  box,  and  asked  how  I  had  done;  she 
shook  her  head  and  told  him  to  encourage  me;  then 
he  came  to  my  room  and  said  I  had  done  well,  and 
to  keep  it  up — that  I  stared  at  him,  looking  bewil- 
dered, and  that  before  the  second  act  he  caught  me 
putting  a  little  picture  in  my  bosom.  He  asked  me 
what  it  was,  and  1  showed  him  the  photograph  of  my 
little  son  taken  when  he  was  two  years  old.  How 
many  a  first  night  has  it  lain  against  my  heart,  and 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       97 

given    me    the    courage    I    needed    in    those    days. 

Sir  John  Poynter  told  me  months  afterwards  that 
when  I  said  Paula's  first  word,  ''Dearest,"  he  leant 
back  comfortably  in  his  stall  and  knew  I  was  going 
to  be  all  right. 

The  following  little  letter  from  Miss  Bessie  Hat- 
ton,  who  was  playing  at  the  Adelphi,  was  the  first 
letter  of  congratulation  I  received  \-^ 


(( 


"30th  May,  1893. 
"Dear  Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell, 

"You  certainly  have  walked  over  all  the  swells. 
Bravo,  your  fortune  is  made.  I  must  quote  a  little 
song  which  I  think  peculiarly  applicable  to  your  case. 
A  little  dirty  boy  was  singing  it  in  the  street: — 

They  knocks  'er  down 
And  they  blacks  'er  eye; 
But  she  gets  there 
All  the  sime. 

"I  don't  believe  the  Adelphi  is  going  to  open  for  some 
time. 

"Kindest  regards  and  best  congratulations  on  your 
triumph. 

"Always  yours  sincerely, 

"Bessie  Hatton." 

Out  of  many  hundreds,  the  letters  that  follow  may 
be  of  interest  to  the  reader.  I  publish  them  with 
apologies  and  blushes. 


98      MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

"Box  F. 
"Dear  Mrs.  Campbell, 

"Mr.  Aubrey  Beardsley,  a  very  brilliant  and  wonder- 
ful young  artist  and  a  great  admirer  of  the  wonder  and 
charm  of  your  art,  says  that  he  must  have  the  honour 
of  being  presented  to  you,  if  you  will  allow  it.  So,  with 
your  gracious  sanction,  I  will  come  round  after  Act  IIL 
with  him,  and  you  would  gratify  and  honour  him  much 
if  you  would  let  him  bow  his  compliments  to  you.  He 
has  just  illustrated  my  play  Salome  for  me,-  and  has  a 
copy  of  the  edition  de  luxe  which  he  wishes  to  lay  at  your 
feet. 

"His  drawings  are  quite  wonderful. 

"Very  sincerely  yours, 
"Oscar  Wilde.'^ 

"63,  Hamilton  Terrace 
"Dear  Mrs.  Campbell, 

"A  thousand  congratulations  on  your  great  triumph  of 
last  Saturday  night.  I  meant  to  write  earlier,  but  I 
have  been  somewhat  unwell  and  out  of  town,  but  please 
forgive  me  when  I  assure  you  your  rendering  of  'Paula' 
is  perfect.  We  all  feel  grateful  to  you  for  the  pains- 
taking and  kind  way  in  which  you  rehearsed.  You 
have  -made  an  enormous  hit,  and  thoroughly  deserve  all 
the  praise  bestowed. 

"Do  try  and  eat  nourishing  food  to  keep  your 
strength  up,  for  the  part  is  a  hard  one,  and  you  must 
feel  in  robust  health  to  tackle  it! 

"I  hope  you  will  come  and  see  me  sometimes.  I'm 
at  home  on  Mondays,  and  should  love  to  shake  you  by 
the  hand  one  Monday  when  you  find  yourself  in  our 
neighbourhood. 

"Myra  Plnero." 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS       99 

"Wilton  House, 

"Salisbury. 
"June  23rd,  1893. 
"My  dear  Mrs.  Campbell, 

"...  A  friend  who  knows  my  faith  in  your  future 
(and  I  really  believe  that  you  should  regard  me  as  one 
of  your  worst  enemies) — I  have  proclaimed  it  so  per- 
sistently ever  since  I  saw  you  act  'Rosalind'  and  'Helena' 
here — writes  on  my  return:  'I  hear  Mrs.  P.  Camp- 
bell is  quite  wonderful  in  The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray.' 

"I  always  felt  quite  confident  that  it  would  come — 
success  with  the  great  public  I  mean — the  other  you 
have  had  long  ago — but  circumstances  sometimes  re- 
tard a  person's  talents  from  getting  properly  known 
for  a  long  time — and  you  became  buried  in  Adelphian 
melodrama — a  line  quite  unworthy  of  your  powers,  how- 
ever much  you  might  excel  in  it;  and  when  I  took  the 
liberty  of  making  enquiry  after  you  last  year,  I  was  told 
that  you  were  ill  and  had  left  the  stage. 

"Please  accept  my  very  sincere  congratulations,  and 
do  not  trouble  to  answer  this  letter.  I  do  not  know 
whether  I  shall  be  able  to  go  and  see  the  play,  but  I 
shall  certainly  do  so  if  I  can.   .   .   . 

"Pembroke." 

"7,  Carlton  House  Terrace, 
"S.  W.. 
"Saturday,  June  31st,  1893. 
"Dear  Mrs.  Campbell, 

"At  the  risk  of  your  thinking  me  impertinent  and 
even  fulsome,  I  can't  help  writing  you  a  line  to  express 
my  admiration  of  your  wonderful  performance,  and  yet 
I  don't  know  how  to  tell  you  how  clever  I  thought  it — 
how   strong   and  moving   in   the   tragic  passages — how 


loo     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

charming  In  the  touches  both  of  comedy  and  of  tender- 
ness— and  again  how  astonishingly  clever. 

"Of  many  good  things,  nothing  was  more  true  to 
nature  and  more  completely  original  on  the  stage  than 
the  piteous  flatness,*  the  absence  of  all  tragic  emphasis 
with  which  some  of  the  most  terrible  things  were  told. 

"And  I  suspect  that  your  performance  was  even  better 
than  it  seemed,  for,  in  spite  of  the  way  it  has  been 
praised,  the  play  is  weak  in  many  places.  .  .  .  Alexander 
quite  took  my  breath  away  last  night  by  saying  that 
every  word  of  it  was  good  from  end  to  end.  .  .  . 

"...  Certainly  a  man  would  be  justified  in  making 
any  marriage  to  get  rid  of  such  friends — though  he  didn't 
succeed  in  shaking  off  the  most  tiresome  of  them  all. 

"Now  I  am  fulsome.  But  I  am  expressing  less  than 
my  sincere  convictions,  and  If  ever  the  play  Is  run  with- 
out you,  you  will  see  that  I  am  right.  So  you  must  for- 
give me  and  accept  my  congratulations. 

"Pembroke." 

"Beefsteak  Club, 

"26th  December,  1893. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Campbell, 

"I  must  write  to  tell  you  how  deeply  your  performance 
impressed  me  to-day.  It  was  even  beyond  what  I  ex- 
pected— and  I  expected  much.  You  get  your  effects  with 
consummate  ease,  and  the  quality  of  your  acting  is  en- 
tirely your  own — something  which  you  can  neither  bor- 
row nor  lend.     I  thought  the  play  remarkable. 

"With  best  wishes, 
"I  remain, 
"Yours   sincerely, 

"Herbt.  Beerbohm  Tree.'' 

*  This  effective  "piteous  flatness"  of  voice  was  entirely  Mr.  Pinero's 
suggestion. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS      loi 

•     •     • 

'"19th  Feburary,  1894. 
"Dear  Mrs.  Campbell, 

"Just  a  line  to  say  how  sorry  I  am  that  I  shan't  see 
you  to-morrow — and  to  say  how  noble  your  acting  was 
the  other  night,  just  the  sort  of  acting  one  dreams  of, 
but  never  expects  to  see. 

"It  is  the  plain  truth  that  Shakespeare's  'Cleopatra' 
would  be  the  only  part  good  enough  for  you,  as  you 
were  on  Wednesday  night,  when  you  played  more 
superbly  than  any  of  the  times  I  had  seen  you  be- 
fore. 

"The  play  itself  is  exasperatingly  thin  here  and  there, 
that  is  why  we  want  to  see  you  do  something  where 
you  would  not  have  to  say  a  word  that  wasn't  exactly 
right. 

"You  must  be  fearfully  tired  at  the  week's  end;  I 
hope  it  won't  kill  you  altogether.  It  is  only  those  tre- 
mendous deep-chested  Italians  that  are  fit  to  stand  the 
mere  physical  part  of  the  strain^ — but  you  are  half- 
Italian,  are  you  not? 

"Believe   me, 

"Very  truly  yours, 

J.  W.  Mackail."  * 

"63,  Hamilton  Terrace,  N.  W., 

"21st  April,  1894. 
"Dear  Mrs.   Campbell, 

"When  you  count  up^  the  minor  rewards  which  your 
acting  in  The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray  has  brought  you, 
you  will  not  fail,  I  hope,  to.indude  in  them  the  hearty  ap- 
preciation of  the  author.  But  I  beg  your  acceptance  of 
this  little  brooch,  as  a  jog  to  your  memory;  for  if  you  ..re 

*  Professor  of  Poetry  in  the  University  of  Oxford. 


I02     MY  LIFE  AND  SOIVIE  LETTERS 

kind  enough  to  wear  it  occasionally,  it  may  serve  as  a  re- 
minder of  my  indebtedness   to  you. 

"Believe  me, 

"Yours  always  truly, 

"Arthur  W.  Pinero." 

"Green    Room    Club, 

"20,   Bedford  Street,  W.  C. 
"Monday  Evening. 
"Dear  Mrs  Campbell, 

"We  think  the  play  should  end  at  the  finish  of  the 
third  act — except  that  you  appear  again. 

"We  also  think  that  you  are  the  greatest  living  ac- 
tress. 

"Louis  N.  Parker. 
"Philip  Burne-Jones." 

•     •     • 

Streatham,  S.  W., 
"September,  1901. 
"My  dear  Mrs.  Campbell, 

"I  had  not  seen  Mrs.  Tanqueray  before. 
"It   was   exceedingly   beautiful   and   powerful,    some- 
times terrible,  and  of  extraordinary  sweetness  wherever 
a   tender  note  was   struck. 

"  'Paula'   is  like  an  opal  of  many  hues   and  lustres, 
with   stains    of   life,    and   wounds    of   passion    through 
which  the  disastrous  fires  glow  that  shatter  it  in  the  end. 
"There  are  no  words  in  which  to  thank  so  incompar- 
able an  artist. 

"Sincerely   yours, 
'  "John  Davidson."  * 

♦Poet,  author,  and  dramatist. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     103 


(( 


"  Mayfair,  W., 
*'  loth  May. 
"Dear  Mrs.  Campbell, 

"  A  very  old  friend  of  mine,  Lord  Wemyss,  has  just 
been  here — early  this  morning — to  rave  to  me  about 
you!  He  went  last  night  to  see  you  and  says  he  must 
know  you.  He  has  seen  Rachel  and  Ristori,  etc.,  and 
none  of  them  could  touch  you,  and  you  could  'move 
nations.'  I  hope  you  feel  flattered.  He  and  Lady 
Wemyss  are  going  to  Scotland  for  a  month,  and  after 
that  I  must  arrange  a  meeting,  only  I  fear  you  will  find 
him  rather  deaf — at  least  I  do — but  he  is  artistic  in 
every  way,  and  enthusiastic  and  sympathetic,  so  I  think 
you  would  like  to  know  him, 

"Yours  very  sincerely, 
"Caroline  Creyke." 

"115A,  Harley  Street,  W., 

"6th  June,  1913. 

,•  •  • 

"You  are  indeed  bountiful  to  me.  I  take  the  books 
into  the  country,  where  they  will  give  me  many  pleasant 
hours.  As  to  Wednesday,  people  are  saying  that  you 
are  acting  'Paula'  better  than  ever.  The  revival,  there- 
fore, I  am  glad  to  think,  won't  hurt  your  reputation. 
But  I  know  it  irks  you — as  it  does  me — to  retread  these 
old  paths,  and  I  am  grateful  to  you  for  this  subduing  of 
your  spirit.     Bless  you. 

"If  you  need  a  testimonial  at  any  time  to  your  sweet 
reasonableness  and  pretty  behaviour  at  rehearsals  don't 
fail  to  apply  to 

"Your^s  faithfully  and  affectionately, 

"A.  PiNERO." 


I04     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

"Marlborough  Club, 
"Pall  Mall,  S.  W., 

"26th  June,  1913. 
"My  dear  Friend, 

"Again  I  place  myself  at  your  feet.  Your  beautiful 
acting  made  me  more  than  once  cry  like  a  little  child.  I 
wish  my  Mary  had  been  with  me. 

"Yours  always, 
"Squire  Bancroft." 

"Burley-on-the-Hill, 
"Oakham, 
"Rutland. 
"Dear  Beatrice, 

"I  must  send  you  an  extract  from  a  letter  Edith  re- 
ceived a  few  days  ago.  I  think  it  will  amuse  you.  It 
is  not  elegantly  expressed,  but  genuine.  'I  have  had 
such  a  treat  at  last,  I  have  seen  lovely  Mrs.  Pat  Camp- 
bell in  The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqtieray.  She  gave  a  mat- 
inee in  Clifton.  How  sweet  she  is,  and  her  adorable 
voice!  I  did  envy  the  people  who  could  hug  her.  She 
has  fetched  me  altogether.  I  went  over  like  a  ninepin. 
She  looked  most  beautiful,  but  sad,  and  every  woman  in 
the  theatre  and  on  the  stage  looked  like  common  earth- 
worms and  caterpillars  beside  her.  I  myself  felt  just 
like  a  slug.   .  .  .' 

"Sybil  Queensberry." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

I  WAS  not  yet  physically  fit  to  enjoy  the  triumph 
and  gaieties  of  my  success.  The  fatigue  and 
nervous  excitement  of  the  role,  with  always 
eight,  and  sometimes  nine  performances  a  week  to 
crowded  critical  London  audiences — the  play  appeal- 
ing to  all  classes — was  a  tremendous  task  so  soon  after 
my  illness.  Invitations  to  luncheons,  teas,  and  Sun- 
day dinner  parties  came  from  all  sorts  of  people. 

I  was  surrounded  by  what  seemed  to  me  intol- 
erable curiosity.  There  were  searching,  thrill-seek- 
ing questions  and  strange,  critical  glances;  which 
oflended  me;  sometimes  arousing  impertinent  cour- 
age on  my  part. 

I  remember  a  certain  dinner  party  given  for  me 
by  a  well-known  Jewish  financier,  and  being  asked  by 
him  at  table  in  an  earnest,  curious  voice,  what  I  kept 
in  a  small  locket  I  wore  on  a  chain  round  my  neck. 
Everyone  sto-pped  talking  and  listened  for  my  an- 
swer. I  replied  gravely,  "One  hair  of  a  Jew's  mous- 
tache." 

Did  anyone  see  me  as  I  was,  I  wonder?  A  fragile, 
unsophisticated  young  woman,  still  almost  a  girl, 
whose  heart  and  nerves  had  been  torn  by  poverty, 
illness,  and  the  cruel  strain  of  a  long  separation  from 
the  husband  she  loved.     Brought  up  in  a  little  sub- 

105 


io6     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

urb  of  London  by  a  religious  Italian  mother — al- 
most a  recluse — adoring  her  children  with  an  anxiety 
that  was  an  obsession;  unable  to  brook  patronage 
in  any  form  whatever,  with  the  tenacity  of  an  Eng- 
lish bulldog  and  the  tender  apprehensiveness  of  some 
wild  creature:  passionately  living  in  a  romantic 
dream-world  of  her  own. 

Somebody  once  said  of  me,  "You  seem  to  feel 
everything  from  the  roots  of  your  hair  to  the  tips  of 
your  toes." 

I  felt  a  curiously  isolated  being  in  the  world  that  in 
those  days  surrounded  the  St.  James's  Theatre :  to  face 
it  was  a  far  less  easy  business  for  me  than  the  stage. 

Clothes  began  to  matter,  and  to  fuss  me.  To  feel 
dressed  up  was  misery,  and  to  be  dowdy — impossible. 

No  one  seemed  to  really  care  who  I  was,  or  who 
my  people  were.  What  was  my  age?  What  did  I 
look  like  off  the  stage?  Had  I  a  lover?  Was  it  true 
that  I  had  a  husband  in  Africa,  and  that  he  was  the 
father  of  my  children? 

To  these  people  I  was  an  accident,  a  sport  of  lia- 
ture,  someone  who  could  do  something  that  stirred 
and  amused  them.  They,  to  me,  were  just  a  mass  of 
people.  I  never  realised  that  one  was  more  impor- 
tant than  another,  and  might  be  of  social,  artistic, 
or  financial  service  to  me. 

They  were  an  uncomfortable  mystery  to  me,  these 
people — not  the  mystery  that  surrounds  art  and  art- 
ists, but  the  mystery  of  the  mysterious  knowledge  of 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     107 

the  world — of  that  world  of  which  I  was  totally  ig- 
norant. 

I  did  not  behave  quite  like  a  dear  friend  of  mine, 
who  rushed  upstairs  to  her  bedroom  from  a  smart  tea 
party,  and  wept  bitterly,  because  the  people  down- 
stairs were  so  different  from  those  she  loved  and 
lived  amongst. 

I  used  to  feel  angry  and  on  the  defensive — savage 
that  I  was. 

For  a  long  while  I  thought  it  comic  that  many 
people  held  the  attitude — "She  could  not  play  'Mrs. 
Tanqueray'  as  she  does  if  she  did  not  know  something 
of  that  kind  of  life" — and — "Which  is  the  real  act- 
ing, Taula  Tanqueray'  on  the  stage,  or  the  un- 
worldy  creature  she  appears  off?" 

I  recollect  a  visit  from  a  distinguished  lady — dead 
long  ago — ^who  asked  me  so  many  questions  so 
quickly,  that  I  blushed  to  the  roots  of  my  hair.  I 
thought  she  was  mad.  I  still  remember  her  bored 
expression  at  the  end  of  our  meeting.  I  never  saw 
her  again. 

I  like  to  think  some  sense  of  humour,  or  sense  of 
proportion — mostly  one  and*  the  same  thing — kept 
my  head  a  little  cool  in  the  subtle,  dangerous  fascina- 
tion of  it  all. 

Men  made  love  to  me,  and  I  was  accused  of  being 
a  wicked  flirt.  I  deny  that.  In  more  than  one  case 
I  cared :  but  my  first  love  had  taught  me  love's  true 
face. 

Life  was  hideou*sly  difficult;  but  deep-rooted  in 


io8     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

my  bones  was  the  instinct  for  true  friendship  founded 
on  real  affection. 

Then  there  were  the  amusing  people,  who  used  to 
talk  to  me  like  this:  "Oh,  you  have  such  an  en- 
thralling personality,  Mrs.  Tanq ,  I  mean  Mrs. 

Campbell;  one  .makes  the  mistake  because  you  are  as 
natural  on  the  stage  as  you  are  off."  "How  can  you 
remember  all  those  words?"  "What  a  memory  you 
must  have."  "Do  you  'make-up'  before  you  go  to 
the  theatre?"  "Do  you  like  your  troupe?  You  call 
it  'company,'  don't  you?"  "Are  you  in  love  with 
Mr.  Alexander?"  "I  think  you  must  be  in  love  with 
Mr.  Pinero,  and  I  am  sure  they  are  both  in  love 
with  you." 

I  remember  a  beautiful  woman  leaning  excitedly 
across  the  dinner  table  on  overhearing  a  remark  of 
mine,  and  exclaiming,  "Have  you  a  mother?  How 
interesting." 

The  criticisms  behind  my  back,  I  dare  say,  were 
something  of  this  nature:  "What  a  disappointment 
she  is  when  you  meet  her."  "She  is  quite  childish, 
and  rather  a  bore — she  either  could  not  or  would  not 
understand  what  I  was  talking  about."  "She  does 
not  know  how  to  do  her  hair — has  positively  no 
savoir  faire."  "No,  she  is  not  common,  and  she  is 
young  enough  to  dare  to  look  sad."  "Instincts  and 
emotions,  yes;  but  no  information,  no  certainty." 
"Her  eyes  are  beautiful,  she  has  wonderful  hair, 
and  her  jaw  line  is  pre-Raphaelite."     "Her  upper 


AS    SHE    FIRST   APPEARED    IN    "tHE    SECOND    MRS.    TANQUERAY 


») 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS      109 

lip  is  too  long."  "Her  hands  are  lovely."  "She 
isn't  my  type,"  and  so  on. 

I  remember  hearing  of  the  incredulity  of  a  certain 
lady  on  being  told  that  I  was  an  ordinary  married 
woman  with  two  children  and  very  little  money. 
iShe  had  thought  I  was  a  luxurious  demi-mondaine. 
Indeed,  she  had  asked  some  of  the  neighbouring 
tradespeople — who  happened  also  to  serve  me — what 
they  thought  of  my  reputation,  and  was  greatly  sur- 
prised by  their  answers. 

Then  there  were  people  who  thought  me  "divine," 
"exotic,"  "beautiful,"  with  a  "shattering  personality." 

Once  at  a  sale  at  John  Barker's  someone  shouted, 
"There's  Mrs.  Pat."  I  could  not  face  the  expression 
in  the  eyes  of  those  who  recognised  me — curiosity 
has  no  feelings — I  was  nearly  suffocated. 

At  the  Academy,  too,  I  was  .mobbed.  I  was  with 
Mr.  Philip  Burne-Jones;  he  managed  my  escape 
through  a  side  door.  My  portrait  as  "Mrs.  Tan- 
queray,"  by  Solomon  J.  Solomon,  was  one  of  the 
popular  pictures  of  the  year. 

Later  I  will  speak  of  the  friends  who  gradually 
became,  and  have  remained,  dear  to  me. 

I  remember  hearing  an  actor-manager's  wife  say 
of  an  actor's  wife,  "She  is  not  in  Society,  my  dear." 
I  repeated  this  to  a  friend  of  mine,  and  this  is  some- 
thing like  the  clever  bit  of  nonsense  he  said  in  re- 
ply:— 

"The  death  of  really  fine  acting  in  this  country  is  that 


no     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

actors  and  actresses  want  to  be  thought  ladies  and  gentle- 
men. Artists  must  give  themselves  away.  If  they  want 
to  spit,*  they  must  spit;  curse,  they  must  curse;  love,  they 
must  love;  drink,  they  must  drink,  or  their  nerves  will  be 
incapable  of  the  necessary  elasticity  and  spontaneity  the 
dramatic  art  demands;  they  will  be  suppressed,  heavy, 
ineffective." 

The  following  two  letters  from  the  late  Lord  Pem- 
broke show  in  an  interesting  way  how  my  life  at  this 
time  struck  him,  also  his  views  on  the  modern  work 
I  was  doing: — 

"7,  Carlton  House  Terrace,  S.  W., 

"August  4th,    1893. 
"My  dear  Mrs.  Campbell, 

"You  touched  me  very  deeply  somehow  yesterday, 
partly,  no  doubt,  because  you  are  so  nice  to  me  (for 
there  is  a  great  real  of  self-love  lurking  about  most  of 
us),  but  chiefly  because  seeing  you  and  hearing  about 
your  life  made  me  realise  how  desperately  unprotected 
you  are,  and  how  constantly  and  inevitably  difficult  your 
life  must  be.  I  can't  help  realising  that,  being  what 
you  are,  and  in  your  circumstances,  you  must  live  and  will 
have  to  live  pretty  constantly  in  a  state  of  siege  how- 
ever careful  you  may  be. 

"It's  an  extraordinarily  difficult  life — and  if  ever  men 
are  listened  to,  they  cut  a  women  off  from  much  that  is 
most  valuable  in  life,  and  give  her  a  very  poor  compen- 
sation. 

"I  suppose  the  best  safeguard  for  a  woman  placed 

*  It  is  said  of  the  great  Clara  Morris  that  she  used  to  clear  her  throat 
and   spit  on  the  stage  before   the   audience. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     in 

as  you  are,  lies  in  her  passion  for  her  art  and  her  ca- 
reer, which  absorbs  her  to  the  exclusion  of  most  other 
things,  and  makes  her  look  on  men  as  mere  dummies  or 
useful  adjuncts  in  her  busy  life. 

"I  suspect  this  is  what  you  would  tell  me.  Don't 
be  angry  w'ith  me  for  saying  so  much,  even  if  it  is  a  trifle 
unconventional.  If  you  knew  the  feeling  that  prompted 
it,  I  am  sure  you  would  not  be.  I  cannot  help  under- 
standing what  the  difficulty  of  such  a  life  must  be — 
and  don't  let  it  make  you  shy  of  me. 

"I  shall  not  write  or  talk  in  this  strain  again;  it's  your 
fault  for  touching  me  so  much.  I  hope  you  will  be  all 
the  better  for  rest  and  fresh  air,  and  that  we  may  meet 
again  next  year,  if  not  before. 

"Sincerely  yours, 

"Pembroke." 

The  Pembrokes  were  anxious  that  I  should  play 
.Shakespearean  roles,  and  arranged  to  see  Mr.  Beer- 
bohm  Tree  on  the  matter. 

The  following  letter  is  amusing: — « 

"7,  Carlton  House  Terrace,  S.  W. 

"December  2nd,  1894 
"My  dear  Mrs.  Campbell, 

"Our  interview  with  Tree  was  as  good  as  a  play — in- 
deed, better  than  most.  He  sat  down  in  a  nice,  leisurely 
way,  and  was  in  a  most  agreeable  mood*,  until  Lady  P. 
broached  the  subject  of  the  sort  of  parts  you  ought  to 
play.  Then  he  'smelt  a  rat'  directly  and  his  anxiety  to 
get  out  of  the  house  without  delay  was  very  funny. 

"He  agreed  most  amiably  and  hurriedly  with  every 
word  we  said  about  you,  all  the  time  hunting  for  his 
hat  and  umbrella.     In  vain  I  changed  the  subject  and 


112     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

made  him  sit  down  again,  while  I  told  him  two  very 
pointless  anecdotes  in  the  hopes  of  quieting  his  suspicions. 
He  was  thoroughly  scared,  and  there  was  nothing  for 
it  but  to  let  him  make  his  escape  without  saying  anything 
more. 

"In  other  words,  he  was  very  good  to  us  in  our  rather 
presumptuous  attempt,  but  mortally  frightened  lest  he 
should  commit  himself  to  any  pledge  to  give  you  a  chance 
in  a  great  Shakespearean  part. 

"But  I  hope  it  will  come  and  before  it's  too  late. 

"I  am  glad  you  are  going  to  study  abroad  a  little. 
Nearly  all  English  actors  over-act  dreadfully,  and  as 
the  public  won't  correct  them,  their  only  chance  of  keep- 
ing to  the  proper  pitch  lies  in  the  study  of  foreign  actors. 
You  must  educate  your  audience  in  England,  it  won't 
educate  you. 

"Just  off  to  Wilton.     Wishing,  you  all  good  luck. 

"I  am, 

"Sincerely  yours, 

"Pembroke'^ 

When  playing  at  the  Adelphi  I  had  called  on  Mr. 
Beerbohm  Tree.  He  was  hurried  and  nervous  in 
manner,  and  said  there  was*no  opening  for  me  at  the 
moment*     I  asked  a  salary  of  £4  a  week. 

It  was  not  until  after  the  matinee  of  The  Second 
Mrs.  Tanqueray  at  the  St.  James's  Theatre  on  Box- 
ing Day  that  he  made  his  first  offer  to  me — a  salary 
of  £60  a  week  to  play  in  John-a-Dreams. 

During  the  run  of  The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray 

*  He  told  me  charmingly  many  years  afterwards  that  it  was  dark  and 
he  had  not  seen  my  face ! 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS      113 

my  father  died  in  Texas  in  September,  1893,  and  the 
following  extract  from  a  letter  of  my  eldest  brother 
Edwin  to  my  uncle  shows  my  success  had  brought 
him  happiness: — 

"The  day  before  Papa  left  us,  when  almost  uncon- 
scious of  all  around,  though  there  were  many  loving 
ones,  he  showed  recognition  of  me  alone,  and  then  his 
eyes  recovered  their  old  fine  brightness.  Then  again 
at  times  he  would  murmur  inaudible  things  about  Eng- 
land, and  once  just  before  dear  Papa  died  I  heard  the 
words,  'Mrs,  Tanqueray.'  " 

This  letter  brought  me  strange  comfort. 

Philip  Burne-Jones  was  among  the  many  new  ac- 
quaintances my  success  brought  me. 

We  soon  became  warm  friends,  and  what  unfor- 
gettable kindness  he  showed  me.  His  talent  for 
painting  and  drawing,  his  keen  appreciation  of  the 
comedy  of  life,  his  interest  in  the  theatre,  and  his 
genuine  love  of  children  made  him  a  delightful  com- 
panion. 

All  friends  of  Phil  will  remember,  as  I  do,  the 
almost  exaggerated  devotion  and  service  he  offered 
them. 

The  wonderful  day  came  when  he  took  me  to  his 
father's  studio.  1  scarcely  realised  what  was  in  store 
for  me. 

I  suppose  we  all  have  a  period  in  art  which  appeals 
to  us  in  an  intimate  way.     Perhaps  because  of  my 


114     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

Italian  blood,  the  pre-Raphaelite  School  spoke  to 
me  in  my  own  language:  my  very  first  visit  to  "The 
Grange"  seemed  a  visit  to  my  home.  I  wanted  to 
stretch  my  arms  in  welcome  to  all  that  rich  colour, 
pure  design,  and  loveliness. 

Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones — "Dearest,"  I  called 
him — came  a  little  into  my  life.  His  genius,  his  rare 
wisdom,  his  richly  stored  memory,  his  boundless  sym- 
pathy, and  his  letters  with  their  precious  sketches, 
made  the  friendship  he  gave  me  one  of  the  greatly 
prized  honours  of  my  life. 

An  unspeakable,  enveloping  tenderness  emanated 
from  him,  as  though  he  would  shield  one  and  all, 
from  the  pain  he  knew  life  must  surely  bring. 

I  never  saw  him  stern,  but  I  knew  he  could  discern 
in  a  moment — however  cunningly  hidden — a  monster 
in  the  human  heart. 

To  my  humble  thinking,  of  all  his  pictures  that  I 
have  seen,  "Avalon"  is  the  most  beautiful. 

Those  who  have  not  been  to  Walpole  House  and 
looked  at  this  picture  in  quietness  are  to  be  pitied, 
for  it  speaks  as  only  pure  beauty  can  speak,  and  it 
fills  the  heart  with  thanksgiving. 

One  day  I  was  lunching  at  "The  Grange,"  perhaps 
I  looked  pale  and  tired,  or  Lady  Burne-Jones,  with 
her  gentle,  correct  manner,  was  making  me  feel  a 
little  self-conscious;  suddenly  Dearest  gave  a  quaint 
look  at  me,  left  the  table  and  the  room,  returning  in 
a  few  moments  dressed  as  a  monk,  the  cowl  over  his 
head,  chanting  absurdly  from  some  holy  book.     We 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS      115 

all  broke  into  merriment,  and  the  atmosphere  was 
magically  eased  for  me. 

And  I  treasure  this  story  of  him:  during  a  nursery 
tea  with  his  lovely  daughter  Margaret  and  her  chil- 
dren, Angela,  a  child  of  rare  dignity,  was  told  to 
stand  in  the  corner  for  some  disobedience.  The 
small,  proud  figure,  with  its  bowed  head  and  its 
back  to  the  bright  tea-table,  was  a  hard  sight  for 
Dearest.  Late  that  night  he  came  with  his  paint- 
box and  his  brushes.  The  next  morning  the  little 
punishment  corner  was  the  most  precious  spot  in 
the  room;  there  was  a  flight  of  birds,  and  a  kitten 
playing  with  its  mother's  tail,  painted  upon  the  wall. 

Dearest  always  filled  me  with  a  sense  of  trust  in 
myself;  Lady  Burne-Jones  made  me  doubt  myself; 
but  she  had  a  magical  graciousness  all  the  same. 

Their  lovely  daughter  Margaret  and  her  husband. 
Jack  Mackail,  took  me  to  their  hearts ;  let  me  through 
the  gate  into  their  garden,  as  it  were — my  children 
too — and  later  my  husband  on  his  return  from  Africa. 

There  was  nothing  they  did  not  do  for  me  for  many 
years,  to  try  and  ease  the  strain  of  the  responsibilities, 
and  the  hard  life  which  pressed  upon  me :  their  praise 
of  my  work  was  unstinted;  they  pulled  me  through 
many  a  painful  doubting,  and  out  of  many  a  silly 
fault. 

Jack  Mackail's  extraordinary  serenity,  his  taste, 
his  magical  choice  of  words,  his  deep  knowledge  of 
literature,  and  his  beautiful  mind,  made  his  com- 
panionship a  royal  gift. 


ii6     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

The  following  most  unfortunate  incident  hap- 
pened about  the  end  of  the  run  of  The  Second  Mrs. 
Tanqueray.  This  newspaper  cutting  vividly  de- 
scribes what  occurred : — 

"It  is  extraordinary  how  men  and  women  who  act  al- 
most every  night  of  -their  lives  suffer  from  stage  fright. 
Only  the  other  day  Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell  in  the  first 
act  of  The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray  was  seized  with  a 
sudden  fit  of  nervousness,  and  for  the  life  of  her  she 
could  not  remember  a  single  word  of  h^r  part. 

"The  prompter  unfortunately  was  either  inaudible  or 
absent,  and  Mr.  Alexander  was  compelled  to  fetch  the 
book  of  the  words,  to  which  the  actress  referred  until 
she  recovered  her  self-possession.  Once  the  passing 
terror  overcome,  she  fairly  surpassed  herself  and  acted 
superbly."* 

What  really  happened  was  this: — On  the  Satur- 
day I  went  home  to  my  uncle's  house,  and  my  mother 
told  me  my  little  son  was  seriously  ill,  and  the  doctor 
was  afraid  it  was  diphtheria.  I  had  played  two  per- 
formances; it  was  past  twelve  o'clock  when  I  got 
hame.  I  went  up  to  his  room  and  sat  by  the  bed; 
and  there  I  sat  all  night,  and  all  the  next  day,  and 
Sunday  night.  He  was  too  ill,  and  his  throat  was 
too  painful  for  him  to  speak  to  me. 

At  half-past  eleven  on  Monday  morning  the  doc- 
tor came  and  told  me  it  was  only  tonsilitis,  and  I 
need  not  be  alarmed. 

I  was  numb  with  fatigue  and  anxiety,  but  it  was 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     117 

Boxing  Day  and  there  were  two  performances  to  be 
played — trains  were  awkward — I  arrived  at  the 
theatre  just  as  the  Overture  struck  up.  I  had  the 
length  of  Aubrey  Tanqueray's  first  scene  with  his 
friends  to  dress  in.  I  scrambled  into  my  clothes, 
rushed  on  to  the  stage  and  not  one  single  line  of  the 
words  of  my  part  could  I  remember,  although  I  had 
played  it  for  seven  months. 

I  sat  on  the  sofa  quite  bewildered.  Mr.  Alex- 
ander brought  me  the  book,  and  as  he  did  he  he  mur- 
mured half  to  himself,  "The  woman's  drunk!" 

When  the  curtain  came  down  at  the  end  of  the  act 
I  went  upstairs  to  my  room  in  a  white  rage  and  began 
dressing  to  go  home.  My  understudy,  Miss  Gran- 
ville, was  in  the  theatre  ready  to  go  on  for  me,  think- 
ing I  was  ill. 

Dear  Maud  Millet  came  into  my  dressing-room. 
I  told  her  what  had  happened  and  Mr.  Alexan- 
der's remark.  All  she  said  was,  "Beerbohm  Tree's 
in  front;  think  of  your  career,"  and  out  she  went  next 
door  to  "Willis's  Rooms"  and  brought  back  a  small 
bottle  of  champagne  and  made  me  drink  nearly  a 
tumblerful.  I  dressed  quickly  for  the  second  act 
and  went  on  to  the  stage. 

It  was  at  this  performance  that  Mr.  Tree  came 
round  and  offered  to  engage  me  at  £60  a  week  to 
play  with  him  at  the  Haymarket. 

I  then  went  to  Mr.  Alexander  and  told  him  I  had 
accepted  an  offer  from  Mr.  Beerbohm  Tree;  that  I 
had  heard  what  he,  Alexander,  had  said;  and  that, 


ii8     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

though  I  was  bound  to  keep  my  contract  with  him 
until  the  end  of  the  season,  I  would  never  speak  to 
him  again. 

It  is  quite  dreadful  to  think  of  now;  but  there's 
the  story!  People  began  to  say  I  drank,  and  this — 
added  to  the  belief  of  some  people  that  I  was  a  Mrs. 
Tanqueray — gave  me  for  a  long  time  a  queer  reputa- 
tion. 

I  remember  at  Stanway*  telling  this  story  of  my 
sudden  loss  of  memory  to  Mr.  Arthur  Balfour.  He 
said  that  once  something  of  the  same  kind  had  hap- 
pened to  him.  Over-tired,  he  had  gone  a  long 
journey  to  address  a  meeting;  when  he  stood  up  to 
speak,  not  a  word  could  he  remember  of  what  he 
wanted  to  say,  until  the  heckling  of  the  audience 
made  him  angry,  and  this  anger  pulled  him  together. 

I  must  not  omit,  that  some  months  before  this, 
Mr.  Alexander,  delighted  with  the  success  of  The 
Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray,  and  to  show  his  apprecia- 
tion of  my  share  in  it,  had  raised  my  salary  from 
£15  to  £30  a  week. 

By  this  time  my  load  of  debt  had  been  a  little 
lifted. 

I  had  written  to  Pat  imploring  him  to  come  home, 
having  received  a  heart-broken  letter  from  him  writ- 
ten before  he  heard  of  my  success.  He  had  been 
silent  for  a  long  time,  and  it  had  greatly  alarmed 
us;  as  the  following  letter  written  to  my  father-in- 
law,  by  my  uncle,  shows: — 

*  Stanway,  the  beautiful   home  of  Lady  Elcho,  now  Lady  Weymss. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     119 

"6th  September,  1893. 
"Dear  Mr.  Campbell, 

"Such  a  long  time  having  elapsed  since  your  son  Pat 
last  wrote  to  his  wife,  I  began  to  fear  lest  some  fearful 
fate  had  overtaken  him  in  that  wild  country.  I  thank 
heaven  it  is  not  so,  for  Stella  has  just  received  a  letter 
from  him  dated  June  25th,  from  which  I  send  you  the 
following   extracts: — 

"  '.  .  .  I  am  coming  home  the  first  moment  I  have 
the  money.  I  had  collected  over  £20,  but,  as  is  my 
usual  luck,  got  a  very  bad  dose  of  fever,  which  has  laid 
me  up  for  nearly  five  weeks,  and  the  doctor  and  medi- 
cines have  taken  it  all. 

"  'I  am  going  on  contracting  on  the  line  and  shall  get 
away  soon.  I  long  to  leave  Africa,  where  I  have  had 
nothing  but  bad  luck.  I  must  bring  a  little  money  home 
with  me  to  start  things,  but  it  is  very  hard  to  make 
money — the  authorities  pay  so  badly.  In  fact,  all  over 
Africa  there  is  depression  and  nothing  doing.  My  life 
is  quite  monotonous — bossing  up  Kaffirs,  making  cul- 
verts, marking  out  banks  and  cuttings,  etc.  At  night  din- 
ner, then  to  bed — dead  tired.  Sundays  are  the  same  as 
week-days. 

"  'I  fear  you  will  find  me  greatly  changed,  ...  I 
pray  God  you  won't  turn  from  me.  -  ,   .'  " 

On  the  31st  December,  1893,  Pat  wrote: — 

"Frontisville, 
"Near  Beira. 
"I  have  just  received  your  letters  of  3rd  and   17th 
November.     Thank  you,  my  own  Stella  wife,  for  writ- 
ing such  kind,  loving  letters;  they  came  at  a  time  when 
I  was  very  miserable.     Believe  me,  darling,  I  am  com- 


I20     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

ing  to  you  the  first  moment  I  have  the  money.  .  .  ." 
"I  wonder  whether  you  have  received  my  letter  telling 
you  of  poor  Hannay's  terrible  death.  I  think  I  would 
have  been  able  to  have  got  away  this  month,  but  his 
death  has  smashed  up  all  my  arrangements.   ..." 

The  following  telegram  from  me  to  Pat,  dated 
March  12th,  1894,  speaks  for  itself: — 

"Just  received  letter,  reply  paid  whether  I  shall  post 
money  to  you  at  once.  Borrow  on  my  name  if  possible, 
it  will  save  time.  Let  me  know,  dear,  where  to  meet  you. 
So  glad  you  have  come. 

"16,  Manchester  Street.  Stella  Campbell." 

When  Pat  arrived  I  saw  in  his  eyes  that  youth, 
with  all  the  belief  and  faith  in  his  own  efforts  and 
his  luck,  had  gone:  his  health  and  his  energies  were 
undermined  by  fever,  failure,  and  the  most  bitter 
disappointments.  Nothing  had  come  of  his  hard 
work,  his  hopes,  and  his  sacrifice.  The  expression 
in  his  face  wrung  my  heart,  but  the  old  gentleness 
and  tenderness  were  there — he  still  loved  me. 

His  pride  in  his  beautiful  children  and  in  my  suc- 
cess— that  was  my  reward. 

The  abnormal  position  in  which  he  found  himself 
must  have  been  al-most  anguish  to  him:  the  girl-wife 
he  had  left  six-and-a-half  years  before,  now  the  fash- 
ionable actress,  surrounded  by  the  rush  and  excite- 
ment of  smart  friends,  smart  parties,  smart  clothes. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     121 

The  curiosity,  too,  that  surrounded  the  husband 
of  "The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqu'eray"  was  intolerable  to 
him;  also  the  hospitality  extended  to  us  both,  which 
we  had  not  the  means  to  return.  He  was  a  great 
gentleman,  Pat,  and  his  position  must  have  been 
most  irksome  to  him. 

He  longed  for  his  children  and  his  wife  to  himself 
away  in  the  country — to  drink  in  England  again — 
to  pick  up  the  threads  of  our  old  love  and  youth.  He 
never  spoke  of  those  years  in  Africa,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  one  big-game-shooting  expedition  when 
his  friend  was  mauled  by  a  lion.  Pat  carried  him 
for  miles;  he  died  in  his  arms.  Pat  dug  his  grave 
as  best  he  could  and  buried  him. 

Every  few  days  he  was  ill  with  malaria.  I  had 
eight  performances  a  week,  my  two  children,  house- 
hold cares,  social  responsibilities,  and  never  enough 
money  to  go  round.  Dearest  and  Lady  Burne-Jones, 
at  Phil's  suggestion,  offered  their  house  at  Rotting- 
dean  to  us  for  a  week's  honeymoon. 

I  remember  how  Miss  Mary  Moore  and  Mr. 
Charles  Wyndham  came  over  from  Brighton  to  look 
at  us! 

•Dearest  wrote  me  a  delicious  letter,  begging  me 
to  stay  for  months  and  months  and  suggesting  that  I 
should  throw  any  books,  furniture  or  pictures  that 
bothered  me  out  of  the  window,  and  that  I  was  to 
order  a  piano  from  Brighton! 

Lady  Burne-Jones  wrote  saying  our  visit  there 


122      MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

would  be  another  pleasant  memory  for  them  con- 
nected with  the  house,  it  was  a  letter  full  of  affection 
and  sympathy. 

This  old  letter  from  my  uncle  alludes  to  the  last 
night  of  The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray. 

"Monday,  23rd  April,  1894. 
"Dear  Beatrice, 

"You  are  really  a  wonderful  woman  that  you  are  able 
to  keep  from  losing  your  head  under  the  intoxicating  in- 
fluence of  all  the  applause,  and  praise,  and  presents, 
and  letters,  laurel  wreaths,  bouquets,  and  suppers,  to 
which  your  enthusiastic  admirers  and  friends  love  to 
treat  you.  I  was  indeed  delighted  to  witness  the  spon- 
taneous and  splendid  tribute  of  applause  which  the  house 
paid  you  on  Saturday  night.  I  do  believe  some  in  the 
gallery  could  have  gone  on  applauding  you  before  the 
curtain  'till  it  were  morrow.'  And  you  received  the 
hearty  applause  so  gracefully  and  sweetly.  It  was  all 
delightful. 

"I  suppose  you  heard  that  one  young  fellow  in  the 
centre  of  the  gallery,  when  all  the  other  people  had  left 
their  seats  and  were  filing  out,  remained  fixed  in  his  place 
in  a  sort  of  reverie,  and  when  told  by  the  attendant  that 
he  must  move,  cried,  'Oh,  no,  I  am  going  to  wait  here  for 
The  IM^squeraders.'  " 

On  March  28th,  1894,  ^^^  Masqueraders  was 
produced  at  the  St.  James's  Theatre,  after  nerve- 
racking  rehearsals  for  both  Mr.  Alexander,  the 
poor  author,  and  myself.  Mr.  Alexander  and  I  re- 
hearsed, only  addressing  each  other  in  the  words  of 
our  parts.     How  fooHsh  it  all  was. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     123 
We  made  it  up  years  afterwards  * 

*I  had  recovered  from  a  long  illness.  Mr.  Alexander  came  with 
great  sympathy  to  my  house  and  said,  "If  you  want  to  work  again  I 
will  revive  The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray,  or  Bella  Donna,  or  anything 
else  you  like,"  and  he  was  very  kind  to  ray  Stella,  giving  her  more 
than  one  fine  part  at  the  St.  James's. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

I  REMEMBER    nothing   about    The   Masquer- 
aders,  excepting  that  my  part  struck  me  as  un- 
real and  much  of  the  play  in  bad  taste. 
I  quote  from  a  criticism  in  The  Daily  Telegraph. 
It  is  amusing  reading  now,  but  at  the  moment  it 
hurt. 

The  Daily  Telegraph, 

April  30th,  1894. 
".  .  .  Here  we  had  a  play  brilliantly  mounted,  accu- 
rately presented,  a  marvel  of  production  even  in  these 
days  of  astounding  realism;  and  behold  the  whole  thing, 
actors'  work,  sumptuous  decoration,  gorgeous  mounting, 
and  author's  brilliant  brain  work,  within  'an  ace  of  be- 
ing wasted  because  the  most  talked  about  actress  of  the 
day  would  not,  or  could  not,  understand  one  of  the  most 
beautiful,  complex,  and  subtle  studies  of  women  that  any 
dramatist  has  offered  us  in  the  whole  range  of  the  mod- 
ern drama.   .   .   . 

"Dulcie  is  the  same  to  everyone,  incredible  and  Inert. 
But  even  the  climax  kiss  she  doe^  not  understand.  In- 
stead of  giving  her  patient  lover  a  rapid,  startling  kiss 
of  wilfulness  and  mutiny  she  merely  pecks  at  his  fore- 
head like  a  discontented  bird.  (Did  Clement  Scott 
know  what  had  happened  between  us,  I  wonder?) 
There  is  no  meaning  in  the  kiss,  no  sense  in  the  scene  so 
interpreted.  The  act  was  saved  by  a  miracle,  for  the 
true  Dulcie  of  the  author's  imagination  did  not  exist.   .   .  . 

124 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     125 

"The  second  act  has  ended,  and  the  audience  Is  in  the 
same  condition  of  surprise.  -Both  Mr.  George  Alexander 
and  Mr.  He-rbert  Waring  are  better  than  ever.  .  .  . 
But  .  .  .  Where  is  Dulcie?  'She  should  have  been  the 
gaiety  and  spirit  of  this  act,  its  life  and  soul.  B-ut  she 
is  still  the  san>e  dull,  inert,  and  inaudible  personaUty, 
an  epitome  of  bo*redom.  No  feverishness,  no  excite- 
ment.  .   .   . 

"The  better  Mr.  Alexander  acts,  the  stronger  becomes 
Mr  Waring.  Mr.  Waring  shakes,  shiver.s,  and  grows 
pale  under  the  excitement.   .    .    . 

"The  audience  cannot  restrain  its  excitement.  .  .  . 
Brilliant  acting  has  made  its  mark,  and  why  -should  it 
not?  But  .  .  .  Where  Is  Dulcie?  The  men  have 
played  the  scene  without  her.  Was  ever  a  finer  dramatic 
opportunity  given  to  an  actress?  But  Mrs  Patrick 
Campbell  passed  it  over  as  insignificant  and  beneath  her 
notice.  A  Sarah  Bernhardt  would  have  leaped  at 
it.   .   .   ." 

Other  people  praised  me,  condemning  Clement 
Scott  for  treating  me  so  "brutally,  almost  cruelly." 
Letters  of  sympathy  poured  in  from  strangers — how 
unpleasant  it  all  was. 

One  foolish  anecdote  of  this  time  has  clung  to 
me: — Mr.  Alexander  in  this  play  by  Mr.  Jones  had 
to  look  into  my  face  and  tell  me  I  was  beautiful 
and  that  he  adored  me,  or  some  such  words,  and 
one  night  he  said  it  with  such  a  look  in  his  eyes,  as 
though  he  would  willingly  have  wrung  my  neck,  that 
I  burst  out  laughing.  When  the  curtain  fell,  his 
stage  manager  came  with  pompous  dignity  to  the 


126     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

door  of  my  dressing-room  and  said,  "Mr.  Alexan- 
der's compliments  and  will  you  please  not  laugh  at 
him  on  the  stage?"  I  replied,  "My  compliments  to 
Mr.  Alexander,  and  please  tell  him  I  never  laugh 
at  him  until  I  get  home."  I  was  a  most  horrible 
leading  lady,  surely! 

The  following  letters  from  friends  show  that  I  had 
my  champions.  The  first  from  Lord  Pembroke  on 
the  fair  wig  I  wore  as  Dulcie;  and  the  second  from 
him  gives  his  frank  opinion  after  reading  the  play; 
also  a  letter  from  Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones  filled  me 
with  courage  and  delight. 

"73,  Hertford  Street,  W. 
"My  dear  Mrs.  Campbell, 

"Your  letter  was  full  of  good  news,  especially  as  I 
detected,  if  I  am  not  m'istaken,  a  note  of  real  content- 
ment in  it.  Since  I  have  been  lying  here  my  two  best 
girl  friends  have  got  themselves  engaged  to  be  married, 
and  now  you  have  got  your  husband  home  again,  and 
it  gives  me  a  queer,  foolish  feeling  that  if  I  only  lie  here 
a  little  longer  everything  in  the  world  would  settle  itself. 

"Td  like  to  hear  your  story  very  much  when  we  meet, 
which  I  hope  we  may  do  before  long,  especially  as  I  shall 
probably  hear  some  fiction  from  others. 

"I  am  still  in  bed  most  of  the  twenty-four  hours,  but 
get  out  for  a  drive  in  the  afternoon.  .1  shall  probably 
leave  this  soon,  as  I  fancy  I  have  got  all  the  good  out  of 
it  that  I  can  get.  I'm  out  of  all  patience  with  myself 
being  so  long  in  getting  well.  I  am  afraid  it's  not 
likely,  but  it's  not  absolutely  impossible  at  this  moment 
that  I  should  come  to  your  first  night  on  the  28th.     I 


Of 

< 


o 
u 
w 

en 


o 

w 
Hi 

< 

o 

O 


l-H 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS      127 

may  pick  up  a  bit  before  then,  and  I  should  dearly  like  to 
come. 

"Certainly  a  sweet,  good  woman  in  a  fair  wig*  is  satis- 
factorily unlike  the  265th  Mrs.  Tanqueray.  Why  is  it 
that  in  stageland  fair  hair  is  essential  to  goodness? 
It's  rather  the  other  way  in  real  life.  .  .  . 

"Always  yours, 

"Pembroke." 

"7,  Carlton  House  Terrace,  S  W. 
"May  8th,    1894. 
"You  faithless  Lady, 

"Why  didn't  you  turn  up  on  Sunday?  I  had  been 
reading  The  'Masqueraders  and  wanted  to  talk  to  you. 
It  is  full  of  crudities,  absurdities,  and  anachronisms,  with 
some  palpable  imitations  both  of  Pinero  and  Ibsen,  but  it 
has  some  cleverness  and  go,  and  is  likely,  I  should 
think,  to  please  the  populace.  Nor  does  your  part 
seem  to  me  altogether  a  bad  one  (except  that  I  can't 
conceive  how  you  get  through  the  Yah,  Yah,  Yah'  busi- 
ness without  sending  the  audience  into  -convulsions)  if 
Mrs.  Tanqueray  had  never  been  written.  As  it  is,  it  is 
really  cruel — Dulcie  is  only  a  weak  edition  of  Paula  un- 
der different  circumstances,  several  shades  sillier,  and 
slightly  more  hysterical,  and  the  only  possible  result  of 
your  acting  it,  as  it  is  evidently  meant  to  be  acted,  would 
be  to  make  the  public  say  that  it  was  only  Mrs.  T.  over 
again  in  a  slight  disguise. 

"This  is  really  too  bad,  and  I  sympathise  sincerely. 

"Always  yours, 

"Pembroke" 

Sir  Edward   Burne-Jones  wrote  giving  me   the 

*  Referring  to  Dulcie  Larondie  in  The  Masqueraders. 


128     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

fruits  of  his  philosophy,  and  saying  that  he  did  not 
waste  precious  life  on  reading  what  the  critics  said 
— and  that  to  real  artists  only  one  critic  mattered — 
"one's  own  savage,  bitter  self." 

He  also  warned  me  of  the  greater  peril  to 
come,  when  "everything  we  d'o  is  praised"  which, 
he  affirmed,  would  follow  my  "unparalled  suc- 
cess." 

At  the  end  of  the  run  of  The  Masqueraders  my 
contract  with  Mr.  Alexander  finished,  and  I  joined 
Mr.  Beerbohm  Tree  at  the  Haymarket  for  John-a- 
Dreams,  by  Mr.  Haddon  Chambers.  I  believe  I 
was  not  a  failure  in  this  role,  but  the  play  did  not 
run,  and  Mr.  Beerbohm  Tree  went  to  America, 
lending  me  to  Mr.  John  Hare. 

Mr.  Hare  produced  The  Notorious  Mrs.  Ebb- 
smith,  by  Mi  Pinero,  at  the  Garrick  Theatre  on  the 
13th  March,   1895. 

The  role  of  Agnes  Ebbsmith  and  the  first  three  acts 
of  the  play  filled  me  with  ecstasy.  There  was  a 
touch  of  nobility  that  fired  and  inspired  me,  but  the 
last  act  broke  my  heart.  I  knew  that  such  an  Agnes 
in  life  could  not  have  drifted  into  the  Bible-reading 
inertia  of  the  woman  she  became  in  the  last  act:  for 
her  earlier  vitality,  with  its  mental  and  emotional 
activity,  gave  the  lie  to  it — I  felt  she  would  have 
arisen  a  phoenix  from  the  ashes. 

That  rounding  off  of  plays  to  make  the  audience 
feel  comfortable  is  a  regrettable  weakness. 

To  me  Agnes  was  a  finer  woman,  and  the  part  a 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     129 

greater  one,  than  Mrs.  Tanqueray.  In  those  days, 
not  so  long  ago,  she  was  a  new  and  daring  type,  the 
woman  agitator,  the  pessimist,  with  original,  inde- 
pendent ideas — in  revolt  against  sham  morals. 

Agnes  believes  herself  freed  from  the  influence 
and  power  of  sex;  and  that  she  loves  Lucas  as 
one  loves  a  friend.  Lucas  does  not  admit  his  sen- 
sual love;  but  in  reality  he  longs  for  her  to  assume 
some  of  the  graces  and  allurements  of  her  sex.  He 
orders  for  her  a  smart  and  very  decollete  evening 
dress.  When  she  puts  in  on  she  feels  ashamed.  It 
delights  and  excites  him.  Agnes  realises  with  hor- 
ror that  she  loves  him — just  as  any  woman  may  love 
a  man — and  she  surrenders. 

Later  the  worldly  ones  arrive  upon  the  scene,  with 
the  compromise  suggested  by  their  wisdom — Lucas 
shall  have  a  sham  reconciliation  with  his  wife,  on 
the  tacit  understanding  that  his  relationship  with 
Agnes  will  be  continued,  protected,  patronised,  even 
approved.  A  fine  subject  for  a  drama — the  resur- 
gence of  ordinary  passionate  humanity  through  the- 
ories, bloodless  schemes  and  thin  ideals. 

Agnes  consents,  burning  the  Bible  in  symbolism  of 
her  destroyed  ideals;  but  again,  in  a  moment,  pulling 
it  out  of  the  fire. 

It  was  the  realisation  of  the  truth  that  freed  Agnes 
— that  through  the  agony  of  human  passion  spiritual- 
ised, lies  the  path  of  freedom — not  through  denial 
or  indulgence. 

A  fourth  act — I  wanted — with  Agnes  preaching 


I30     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

the  doctrine  of  selfless,  unexacting  love;  stern  and  un- 
yielding only  when  baseness,  lying,  and  fear  in- 
vade its  purity — her  conversion,  a  sudden  revelation 
of  the  Love  of  God ;  not  a  mere  creeping  back  into  the 
shell  of  a  narrow  morality — how  I  should  have 
loved  to  speak  that  harangue  in  Hyde  Park  if  only 
it  had  been  written. 

Did  Sir  Arthur  Pinero  miss  an  opportunity,  or 
was  he  right,  the  time  was  not  yet  ripe?  The  suffra- 
gette, with  her  hammer  in  her  muff,  had  not  yet 
arisen  on  the  horizon. 

I  played  The  Notorious  Mrs.  Ebbsmith  in 
America,  and  its  success  there  was  quite  extraordi- 
nary, people  came  round  to  my  dressing-room — 
friends  and  strangers — and  stared  speechless  with 
the  thoughts  Agnes  Ebbsmith  had  inspired. 

Mr.  John  Hare's  performance  in  London,  as  the 
Duke  of  St.  Olpherts  was  a  gem;  his  delivery  of  the 
line,  "I  can't  approach  women — I  never  could — in 
the  missionary  spirit" — said  with  a  most  profound 
and  impressive  courtesy — for  a  moment  eclipsed  the 
tragedy  of  the  poor  heroine's  situation. 

Mr.  Hare  had  a  delicious  way  of  looking  at  you 
on  the  stage  with  an  absolutely  sane  eye.  How  I 
admired  that  steady  gaze. 

Mr.  Beerbohm  Tree's  tour  in  America  had  been  a 
financial  failure;  he  returned,  claiming  me  for  a 
production  of  Fedora  at  the  Haymarket.  I  was 
bound  by  my  contract,  and  he  refused  to  let  me  break 
it.     And  this  most  brilliant  and  successful  play.  The 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS      131 

Notorious  Mrs.  Ebbsmith,  unfortunately  did  not 
survive  the  change  of  cast. 

I  played  Agnes  Ebbsmith  eight  times  a  week  for 
a  fortnight  whilst  rehearsing  Fedora.  It  was  an 
impossible  feat.  I  had  only  time  to  study  the  last  act 
— the  death  scene — of  this  more  than  exacting  role. 

After  a  fortnight  the  work  told  on  my  voice  and 
I  was  dumb  and  Mrs.  Tree  took  up  the  role. 

From  many  hundreds  of  letters  referring  to  Agnes 
Ebbsmith,  these  from  Mr.  Mackail  and  Mr.  Ed- 
mund Gosse  made  me  very  proud. 


((n 


14th  March,   1895. 
"You  are  with  the  Immortals  now.     I  can't  begin  to 
talk  about  it;  it  seems  like  an  'insult  to  praise  it;  it  was 
like  the  inner  flower  of  fire. 

"I  am  coming  to  see  It  again  to-morrow  night,  and 
Margaret  and  I  on  Wednesday.     The  splendour  of  you ! 

"J.  W.  MacKail.'' 

"29,  Delamere  Terrace,  W., 

"ist  April,   1895. 
"My  dear  Mrs.  Campbell, 

"What  I  thought  of  the  play?  Well,  I  have  a  great 
difficulty  in  saying,  for,  to  tell  the  truth,  you  swamped 
the  play  for  me.  The  play  was — you.  I  tell  you  with- 
out exaggeration  that  I  never  saw  on  the  English  stage 
a  piece  of  acting  which  seemed  to  me  so  brilliantly  sus- 
tained, varied,  and  vivified.  Almost  the  only  thing 
which  seemed  to  me  wrong  was  the  whole  'business'  about 
the  Bible.  What  was  that  book  doing  dans  cette  galere? 
It  jarred  upon  me  as  an  incoherent  and  stagey  and,  there- 
fore, disturbing  element  in  an  otherwise  splendid  men- 


132     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

tal  and  interior  drama — I  mean  the  drama  of  Mrs. 
Ebbsmith's  inward  movings — vicissitudes,  apprehen- 
sions, whirlwind  of  battling  instincts — all  mirrored  and 
translated  by  you  in  a  manner  transcendently  poetical 
and  thrilling.  When  it  dawned  upon  you  that  Lucas 
was  no  real  comrade,  and  the  project  of  retaining  him 
by  commoner  attractions  was  floating  in  your  mind — 
now  repulsed,  now  again  projected — your  acting  was  so 
magnificent,  the  strain  of  it  on  me  was  almost  madden- 
ing, I  wanted  to  scream.  In  this  (I  think  that  I  am  no 
dramatic  critic,  only  a  recorder  of  personal  impressions) 
your  greatness  lies. 

"You  can  interpret —  you  alone  on  our  present  stage — 
the  flash  and  gloom,  the  swirl  and  the  eddy,  of  a  soul 
torn  by  supposed  intellectual  emotion. 

"What  did  I  thirik  of  the  play?  I  am  afraid  I  was 
thinking  only  of  you.    .   .  . 

"Edmund  Gosse.' 

^%2^  Hamilton  Terrace,  N.  W. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Campbell, 

"I  saw  the  play  last  night,  and  it  was  a  revelation  to 
me,  I  enjoyed  my  evening  thoroughly.  I  can't  say 
more  to  you,  dear,  about  your  performance  than  I  have 
already  told  you.  It's  the  finest  bit  of  acting  I  have  ever 
seen.  Now,  dear  friend,  may  I  venture  to  chide  you? 
Your  acting  is  perfect,  your  appearance  is  perfect,  but 
your  voice  showed  weary  fatigue  now  and  again. 

"May  I  implore  you  to  take  every  possible  care  of 
yourself,  rest  as  much  as  possible,  and  sacrifice  pleasure 
for  your  art's  sake.  You  are  so  gifted  and  have  made 
such  a  gigantic  hit.  I  don't  want  your  voice  to  show 
wear.  You  can't  act  a  part  like  'Agnes'  and  keep  late 
hours,  too.     The  late  hours  are  bound  to  tell,  and  thea 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     133 

your  great  creation  will  become  weakened  from  sheer 
physical  fatigue. 

"Forgive  me,  dear;  it's  for  your  good.  I  don't  want 
people  to  say  a  word  against  your  acting  or  strength  of 
voice.  It  struck  me  last  night  you  were  tired.  Am  I 
right?  Do  give  up  late  hours  and  rest  all  day  if  you 
can.  ... 

"Myra  Pinero." 


After  Fedora  I  went  from  the  Haymarket  to  the 
Lyceum,  and  opened  with  Mr.  Forbes  Robertson  in 
Romeo  and  Juliet  on  September  21st,  1895.  With 
the  exception  of  "Rosalind,"  "Helena,"  and  "Olivia," 
which  I  played  with  Mr.  Ben  Greet  in  his  Pastoral 
Players  Company,  I  had  no  experience  in  Shakes- 
peare. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  before  my  first  ap- 
pearance on  any  stage,  I  had  been  to  the  theatre  but 
three  times  in  my  life;  and,  not  coming  from  a 
theatrical  family,  I  had  no  traditional  knowledge  to 
guide  me. 

The  "Phelps  School"  meant  nothing  to  me.  Mr. 
Robertson's  work,  on  the  other  hand,  was  built  upon 
it,  and  upon  the  influence  of  Sir  Henry  Irving; 
also,  he  had  played  Romeo  many  years  before  with 
Madame  Modjeska. 

I  played  Juliet  simply,  unpretentiously;  I  hope 
with  the  wonder  and  the  rapture  of  a  romantic,  pas- 
sionate child. 

In  those  days,  as  in  these,  a  declamatory  style,  ex- 
aggerated gesture,  rhodomontade  in  any  form,  were 


134     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

to  me  ridiculous.  Pomposity,  a  sense  of  one's  own 
importance — slow  music,  gradually  getting  louder  as 
the  artist  appears — the  unnatural  lifting  of  the  voice 
at  exits,  compelling  the  audience  to  clap  their  hands 
— any  meretricious  form  of  stage  effects  exasperated 
me.  I  wanted  nothing  to  interfere  with  the  funda- 
mental atmosphere  of  beauty,  simplicity,  and  truth. 
Whatever  the  gamut,  it  must  be  within  reasonable- 
ness; and  the  "bottom  rock  sane." 

Want  of  experience,  and  physical  fatigue,  many 
times  rendered  my  performances  ineffective;  that  was 
unavoidable. 

The  fag  of  stage  life  was  not  in  my  blood;  an  un- 
tidy dressing  room;  a  dresser  who  called  me  "my 
dear,"  smelt  of  beer,  and  scratched  with  a  hook 
down  my  back  until  she  happened  to  come  across  the 
eye,  wore  me  out. 

Oddly  enough,  I  have  never  been  known  to  weep 
at  rehearsal,  however  heart-broken  and  weary  I  have 
been. 

But  I  am  running  away  from  "Juliet." 

The  following  article,  signed  by  A.  B.  Walkely, 
shows  much  sympathy  with  my  efforts: — 

^'The  Alhmn,  Oct.  7th,  1895. 

**....  'Juliet  is  a  child  of  fourteen,  but  eleven  years 
weaned  Lammas,'  says  the  nurse.  .  .  . 

"The  whole  spirit  of  the  play  implies  that  Juliet  is 
encountered  by  Romeo  as  a  child  at  an  age  when,  as  the 
French  say,  'The  heart  has  not  yet  spoken,'  but  is  quite 
capable  of  speaking;  and  the  age  of  fourteen  in  Italy  is 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     135 

approximately  chosen,  for  this  now  and  then.  It  has  been 
said  that  Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell  looks  older.  To  me 
she  certainly  does  not;  her  figure  is  slim  and  girlish,  her 
ways  are  the  ways  of  a  child.  Throughout  the  play  it  is 
the  naive  simplicity,  the  trusting,  childlike  nature  of  the 
girl  upon  which  she  dwells.  Even  when  the  hot  passion 
wells  out  from  her  heart  in  the  balcony  scene  she  is  abso- 
lutely naive.  A  trace  of  self-consciousness  in  her  refer- 
ence to  'a  maiden  blush,'  of  coquetry  in  her  'I  have 
forgot  why  I  did  call  thee  back,'  and  the  scene  would  be 
ruined;  but  there  is  none.  When  her  father  rates  her 
and  her  mother  turns  from  her  and  the  nurse  trifles  with 
her,  she  is  numbed  and  bewildered — a  child  who  cannot 
understand.  Before  she  drinks  the  sleeping  draught  she 
shows  all  the  child's  natural  terror  of  playing  with  death, 
of  the  dark,  of  tombs,  of  ghosts.  When  she  drinks  the 
potion  It  is  with  simple  obedience — a  child  who  does  what 
she  has  been  told.  That  Mrs.  Campbell  should  give  us 
with  such  tenderness  and  delicacy  the  child  in  Juliet  Is 
no  surprise  to  me,  for  it  was  the  remnant  of  the  child 
she  showed  us  in  Mrs.  Tanqueray  that  was  more  than 
half  the  charm  of  that  performance. 

"The  actress's  temperament  naturally  Inclines  her 
that  way.  She  has  taken  her  own  temperament  as  her 
sole  guide  throughout,  discarding  'the  traditions'  of  the 
part.  'The  more's  the  pity'  says  Mr.  Archer,  apparently 
because  this  and  that  'tradition'  would  have  helped  her 
to  greater  emphasis  and  variety  in  certain  points,  and 
in  the  cajolery  of  the  nurse  and  so  forth.  For  my  part, 
I  will  confess  I  care  little  or  nothing  about  these  minor 
points,  even  if  it  were  proved,  which  it  Is  not,  that  a 
study  of  'tradition'  would  have  helped  Mrs.  Campbell 
to  a  better  understanding  of  them.  I  look  for  an  im- 
pression of  sincerity  and  beauty  from  the  character  as 


136     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

a  whole,  and  I  can  only  say  that  Mrs,  Campbell  gives  me 
this  impression  in  a  'high  degree.  For  me,  her  Juliet 
is  from  first  to  last  an  exquisitely  truthful  and  moving 
performance." 

I  quote,  too,  what  Mr.  William  Archer  wrote  in 
The  World. 

"October  21st,  1895. 

" My   article   was   written   before   I   had   seen 

other  criticisms  and  without  any  foresight  of  the 
extraordinary  divergence  of  opinion  to  which  Mrs.  Pa- 
rlck  Campbell's  Juliet  has  given  rise.  It  was  easy  enough 
to  foresee  that  some  critics  would  be  readier  than  others 
to  accept  her  beauty  and  charm  as  compensation  for  the 
evident  lack  of  power  and  apparent  lack  of  understanding 
and  feeling  with  which  she  treated  the  intenser  pas- 
sages of  the  play,  but  it  did  not  for  a  moment  cross  my 
mind  that  anyone  who  had  ever  seen  a  great  Shakes- 
pearean performance  or  a  great  performance  of  any 
sort  would  call  this  a  really  adequate  and  competent, 
much  less  a  poetic  and  perfect,  Juliet.  What  was  my 
astonishment  to  find  that  the  majority  of  critics  went  into 
unmeasured  and  evidently  heartfelt  raptures  over  an  im- 
personation in  which,  after  the  balcony  scene,  I  have 
been  unable  to  discover  a  single  luminous  ray  or  a  thrill- 
ing moment!  We  have  here  no  ordinary  difference  of 
opinion  over  which  one  can  only  shrug  one's  shoulders 
and  say:  'There's  no  accounting  for  taste!'   ..." 

Mr.  William  Winter's — the  leading  American 
critic — point  of  view  is  also  interesting.  I  was, 
indeed,  up  against  tradition  with  a  vengeance. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     137 

"Theatre, 
"December,  1895. 
"Mr.  William  Winter  has  returned  from  England  to 
New  York  with  some  exceedingly  definite  impressions  as 
to  Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell's  Juliet.  He  found  her  pos- 
sessed of  certain  sensibility  and  personal  charm,  al- 
though she  was  of  an  obviously  mature,  conventional 
drawing-room  order  of  mind  and  manner.  In  the  tragic 
phases  of  the  role  she  was  limp  and  powerless,  and  from 
the  potion  scene  to  the  close  her  acting  had  neither 
purpose,  form,  continuity,  coherence,  visible  passion, 
Impressiveness,  nor  dramatic  effort." 

One  night  during  the  performance  this  scribbled 
note  was  sent  round  to  me  from  the  front  of  the  house 
from   Mr.   Edmund   Gosse: 

"I  have  not  dared  to  come  and  see  you  here  before. 
I  was  afraid  of  shattering  my  idol,  but  you  surpass  your- 
self. Your  Juliet  is  an  incarnation  of  girlhood  as  a 
poet  dreams  of  it." 

J.  W.  Mackail  wrote.  ''The  more  I  think  of 
your  Juliet  the  finer  and  more  delicately  beautiful 
it  seems,  and  the  more  eager  am  I  to  see  it  again." 

The  following  letter  from  a  girl  friend,  Diane 
Creyke,*  to  her  mother,  shows  a  little,  what  I 
thought  of  my  performance — or  was  it  the  expres- 
sion of  my  mother's  anxious  face  that  made  me  want 
to  make  her  smile?     I  do  not  know. 

"It  was  very  amusing  watching  the  people  arrive,  only 

*  Mrs.  Ker  Seyraer, 


138     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

I  didn't  know  who  they  were.  One  woman  was  tre- 
mendously applauded  by  the  gallery,  and  got  up  from 
her  stall  and  bowed.  The  curtain  went  up  at  eight,  and 
when  Mrs.  Pat  came  on  there  were  tremendous  cheers. 
It  was  most  exciting.  She  looked  excessively  young,  with 
her  hair  down  and  a  wreath  of  flowers.  Her  ball  dress 
was  lovely — a  mixture  of  flame  colour  and  cloth  of 
gold  with  angels  round  it.  She  didn't  seem  a  bit  nerv- 
ous, but  her  voice  was  not  very  strong.  The  audience 
was  tremendously  enthusiastic,  but  I  was  rather  disap- 
pointed there  were  so  many  scenes,  and  it  seemed  dis- 
connected. But  Mrs.  Pat,  except  for  not  speaking  loud 
enough,  was  perfection. 

"Mr.  Pat  came  and  talked  to  me  between  the  acts. 
Mrs.  Pat  made  me  go  back  with  all  the  family  to  Ashley 
Gardens  to  supper.  Her  sisters  were  there,  and  Beo 
and  Stella,  Mrs.  Pat's  mother,  uncle,  two  ladies,  Irene 
.Vanburgh,  and  myself.  We  had  supper  without  Mrs. 
Pat,  as  she  was  kept  at  the  theatre,  but  she  arrived  in 
white  muslin  with  her  hair  down;  rushed  at  her  mother, 
saying:  'Oh,  mamma,  your  daughter  has  been  making  such 
a  fool  of  herself.'  Irene*  drove  me  home  and  was  very 
nice." 

This  letter  was  written  to  me  after  Lord  Pem- 
broke's death  by  Lady  Pembroke: 

"Ashridge, 
"August  25th,   1895. 


(( 


"This  of  your  acting  Juliet  is  very  sad.     He  wanted 
you  so  much  to  do  It,  and  how  interested  he  would  have 

*  Irene  Vanbrugh   played   with  me   in    The  Masqueraders,  and   helped 
me   with  her  sympathy  through  my   difficulties. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     139 

been — and  now  he  has  gone.     Perhaps  he  does  see.     I 
am  so  glad  you  have  Shakespeare's  words  to  say.   .   .  . 

"I  wish  I  could  make  everyone  feel  how  near  the 
spirit  world  is,  and  how  individuality  exists  and  cannot  be 
changed.  You  have  imagination,  and  can  realise  this. 
How  the  great  spirits,  as  it  were,  call  on  us  to  fit  our- 
selves to  join  them.  You  said  in  one  of  your  letters  you 
were  not  happy.  I  wish  I  could  help  you.  I 
would  .  .  . 

"I  feel  it  very  blessed  to  be  Intensely  quiet  here  and 
let  the  sense  of  the  belief  that  he  is  waiting  for  me  enter 
my  soul. 

"Yours  very  sincerely  and  affectionately, 

"G.  Pembroke." 

"Milford  House, 

"Godalming. 
"Dear  Mrs.  Campbell, 

"I  went  up  last  Thursday  and  saw  the  play.  I  was 
too  shy  to  go  and  see  you  afterwards,  or  to  send  you  a 
message,  though  my  friends  laughed  at  me  for  it.   .    .    . 

"I  must  tell  you  how  much  your  Juliet  enchanted  us. 
I  wish  I  could  tell  you  or  write  you  the  way  it  interested 
and  thrilled  me.  I  wish  I  could  write  it  in  a  way  that 
were  worth  reading,  for  I  haven't  seen  yet  an  adequate 
notice  of  it. 

"You  were  wonderfully  good,  by  far  the  best  Juliet 
I  ever  saw,  and  I  so  much  admired  the  quietness  of  your 
beginning  before  the  trouble  came,  and  then,  when  sor- 
row gathered  round  the  poor  lovers  and  everything  goes 
against  them,  the  way  in  which  you  steadily  rose  with  the 
occasion,  more  pathetic,  deeper,  grander,  as  a  fine  nature 
does  under  trial  until  the  scene  of  the  sleeping  draught 
comes,    and    there    you    were    splendid    and    thrilling. 


1140     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

"Y.our  face  In-  those  last  scenes  of  grief,  passion,  de- 
spair, haunts  me,  and,  do  you  know,  you  are  so  like  a 
Madonna  by  Murillo,  with  your  loose,  dark  hair,  simple, 
sensuous,  and  passionate  (as  I  think  someone  says  in 
poetry). 

"Well,  If  It  gives  you  any  satisfaction  to  know  that 
you  made  people  cry  and  drive  home  with  aching  hearts 
and  too  excited  to  sleep,  you  may  have  It. 

•      •      •      • 

"Barbara  Webb." 

It  was  during  the  run  of  Juliet  that  Mrs.  Wil- 
liam Morris  gave  me  a  lovely  photograph  of  herself, 
taken  by  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  in  her  garden.  I 
saw  her  first  when  her  hair  was  white;  her  beauty 
and  her  grace  took  my  breath  away. 

I  sent  her  some  little  seed  pearls  for  her  needle- 
work.    I  wonder  into  what  work  she  wove  them? 

I  find  in  my  own  handwriting  across  a  picture 
of  the  balcony  scene:  "Three  months'  run,  and  I  so 
miserable  at  not  having  played  better  on  the  first 
night." 

How  well  I  remember  the  difficulties  at  the  thea- 
tre. Sir  Henry  Irving  had  let  Mr.  Robertson  have 
the  Lyceum  if  he  "could  get  Mrs.  Patrick  Camp- 
bell. .  .  ." 

The  flattery  of  my  manager  was  misleading — I 
was  accused  of  flirting. 

What  matter,  Juliet  was  over  for  me,  forever! 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  next  production  at  the  Lyceum  was 
Michael  and  His  Lost  Angel.  Mr.  Rob- 
ertson begged  me  to  come  and  hear  Mr. 
Henry  Arthur  Jones  read  this  play,  and  so  far  as  my 
memory  can  be  trusted,  this  cutting  from  some  comic 
paper  is  the  true  story  of  what  took  place,  excepting 
that  I  did  attend  a  rehearsal  or  two  to  please  Mr. 
Robertson. 

"I  won't  say  that,"  said  Mrs.  Pat, 

A-pointing  to  the  book, 
"These  words  must  stay,"  said  H.  A.  J. 

The  lady  took  her  hook. 

Sweet  Marion  T.  said  "Oh,  dear  me, 

These  words  are  in  a  measure, 

Not   'comme   il   faut.'  " 

Said  Jones,  "Quite  so, 

I'll  cut  'em  out  with  pleasure." 

I  felt  my  part  in  this  play  was  vulgar,  and  it  did 
not  interest  me,  but  I  said  I  would  try  and  play  it 
if  some  of  the  lines  were  cut.  Nutcombe  Gould,  also 
a  member  of  the  company,  disliked  the  play  and  re- 
signed his  role. 

The  play  was  not  a  success,  and  I  was  very  severely 
criticised  for  having  resigned  my  part  in  it. 

141 


142     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

I  did  not  like  forsaking  my  manager,  or  offending 
Mr.  Jones,  or  foregoing  my  salary;  but  there  was 
something  in  that  play  I  could  not  stomach. 

This  letter  from  Pat  to  me — in  the  country — shows 
I  was  not  alone  in  my  uncomfortable  feeling. 

"My  darling, 

"Thank  you  so  much  for  all  your  kind  thoughts  about 
me.  I  was  obliged  to  go  to  the  office  to-day.  I  think  it 
is  a  touch  of  influenza  I  have.  Dear,  I  cannot  tell  you 
how  pleased  I  am  that  you  are  not  playing  in  Jones' 
play.  .  .  . 

"All  my  love  to  you,  my  own  darling  wife, 

"Daddy." 

The  next  production  was  For  the  Crown,  done 
into  English  by  John  Davidson  from  the  play  Pour 
la  Couronne,  by  Frangois  Coppee,  produced  at  the 
Lyceum  under  Mr.  Robertson's  management  on  Feb- 
ruary 27th,  1896.  It  was  a  fine  play  and  had  a  fine 
success.  The  little  part,  Militza,  appealed  to  me, 
and  I  believe  I  played  it  well. 

During  the  rehearsals  at  a  moment  when  an  actor 
delivering  a  rather  big  speech  "let  himself  go," 
John  Davidson  catching  my  eye,  turned  to  me  and 
said  under  his  breath,  with  his  grave  manner  and 
inimitable  Scotch  accent,  "Now,  if  he  were  to  be- 
have like  that  in  Piccadilly,  he  would  be  arrested." 
My  merriment  at  what  I  could  not  explain  to  the 
company,  caused  some  disturbance. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     143 

How  excellent  Miss  Winifred  Emery  was  in  her 
part,  and  how  well  Mr.  Robertson  played — alto- 
gether it  was  a  splendid  production. 

John  Davidson  and  I  were  very  friendly,  and  I 
remember  I  talked  much  to  him  about  Racine's 
Phedre  and  what  Sarah  Bernhardt's  performance 
of  Phedre  meant  to  me,  and  I  commissioned  him  to 
translate  it  for  me.  This  he  did,  but  I  have  never 
produced  it,  for  he  expressed  a  wish  in  writing,  found 
after  his  tragic  death,  that  no  work  of  his  should 
ever  be  presented  again.  I  do  not  think  he  realised 
his  gifts — or  perhaps  he  did — and  others  did 
not. 

There  was  a  little  poem,  "Butterflies,"  in  this  play 
of  Davidson's,  that  he  let  me  recite  instead  of  sing- 
ing. The  efifect,  I  believe,  was  good,  and  pleased 
people. 


"butterflies." 


At  sixteen  years  she  knew  no  care, 
How  could  she,  sweet  and  pure  as  light, 
And  there  pursued  her   everywhere 
Butterflies  all  white. 

A  lover  looked,  she  dropped  her  eyes 
That  glowed  like  pansies  wet  with  dew, 
And  lo!  there  came  from  out  the  skies 
Butterflies  all  blue. 


144     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

Before  she  guessed  her  heart  was  gone 
The  tale  of  love  was  swiftly  told, 
And  all  about  her  wheeled  and  shone 
Butterflies  all  gold. 


Then  he  forsook  her  one  sad  morn, 
She  wept  and  sobbed,  "Oh,  Love,  come  back!" 
There  only  came  to  her  forlorn 
Butterflies  all  black. 

Friends  who  loved  me  sent  little  cuttings  from 
papers  to  cheer  me,  such  as  these: — 

"FROM  A  WOMAN'S  STANDPOINT. 

"By  Clara  Lemore. 
"Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell. 

"It  is  a  wonderful  voice — not  wonderful  because  of  its 
sweetness  only,  but  because  of  its  power  of  suggestion,  be- 
cause it  seems  always  to  be  saying  so  much  more  than  the 
bare  words  set  down  for  it.  As  you  listen  to  the  soft, 
bell-like  vibrations,  all  sorts  of  sad  possibilities  present 
themselves  to  your  mind — possibilities  of  an  intense  ca- 
pacity for  suffering,  possibilities  of  much  silent  heart- 
bleeding  in  the  past,  of  some  long-endured  sorrow  in 
the  time  gone  by,  which  has  left  its  echo  still  ringing 
in  the  tones  of  to-day. 

"This  seems  to  be  the  dominant  note  in  Mrs.  Camp- 
bell's individuality,  this  capacity  for  acute  feeling. 
And  when  one  comes  to  look  into  the  thing,  it  is  to  be 
easily  understood  of  all  men,  for  is  it  not  this  very  im- 
pressibility which  gives  her  her  stronghold  over  her 
audiences? 


"there  was  a  little  poem  in  this  play,  'butterflies,' 

THAT    HE    LET    ME   RECITe" 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     145 

"Quick  to  feel  herself,  is  it  to  be  wondered  at  that  she 
should  quickly  raise  feelings  in  others.  Out  of  the 
soul's  experience  the  tongue  gives  forth  its  interpreta- 
tion; and  so,  one  queries,  with  a  sharp,  hot  quiver  of  in- 
stinctive sympathy,  what  has  been  the  sorrow  in  this 
gifted  woman's  life,  that  it  should  have  produced  this 
curious  power  of  passing  on  its  sense  of  suffering  to 
her  listeners. 

"And,  after  all,  maybe  this  suggestion  of  an  old-time 
grief  is  but  the  perfection  of  her  art.  It  may  be  that 
she  is  of  a  buoyant  nature,  that  she  has  a  temperament 
which  creates  an  atmosphere  of  unbroken  sunshine  for 
those   fortunate  ones  who   share  her  daily  life! 

"It  may  be,  but  one  finds  it  hard  to  imagine.  Self- 
sacrificing  beyond  even  the  limits  of  womankind  she  may 
be,  intense  in  her  affections  she  should  be,  tender  in  her 
sympathies  she  must  be — but  joyous? 

"That  one  can  hardly  conceive  of  her." 

On  June  2nd,  1896,  Sudermann's  Magda,  *  trans- 
lated by  Louis  N.  Parker,  was  produced,  and  proved 
a  failure:  I  was  bitterly  disappointed. 

In  a  theatre  of  a  more  intimate  size,  and  not  bur- 
dened with  the  traditions  of  the  Lyceum;  the  play  not 
produced  on  Derby  Day — the  day  on  which  this  pro- 
duction was  made — would  have  had  a  good  run, 
as  was  eventually  proved. 

"Pastor  Hefterdinck,"  played  by  Mr.  Robertson, 
was  a  small  and  monotonous  part.  Audiences  do  not 
like  their  favourites  in  minor  roles. 

*  The  play  had  been  bought  by   Mr.  George  Alexander,   and   he  had 
handed   it  on  to  Mr.  Forbes  Robertson. 


146     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

Then  again  the  Lyceum  audiences  were  not  used 
to  the  psychological  drama.  And  a  curtain  rising 
for  three  acts  on  the  same  scene — a  room  with  a 
stove,  armchair,  table,  a  bowl  of  g.oldfish,  a  desk,  a 
horse-hair  couch,  and  a  few  horse-hair  chairs — after 
all  the  pageantry  and  show  they  had  been  accustomed 
to  at  this  theatre  for  years — was  not  their  "money's 
worth-." 

At  the  Royalty  in  1900  Magda  ran  for  many 
months.  In  America  it  was  the  play  I  opened  with 
at  the  Opera  House  in  Chicago,  and  played  in  every 
town  during  my  lon'g  tour.  The  play  was  well 
known,  and  had  been  played  there  in  German,  Eng- 
lish, French,  and  Italian. 

Such  is  the  battle  of  the  theatre. 

Should  there  be  any  who  do  not  know  the  play, 
it  -may  be  interesting  to  give  a  short  account  of  it, 
for  this  play  is  loved  by  Sarah  Bernhardt,  Eleanora 
Duse,  and  many  others. 

Magda  has  run  away  from  her  home  in  a  little 
German  town':  she  has  become  a  famous  singer. 
Her  father,  a  retired  colonel,  never  allows  her  name 
to  be  mentioned:  her  stepmother  and  younger  sister 
have  given  up  speaking  of  her. 

They  hear  of  the  visit  of  a  Prima  Donna  to  the 
town,  and  realise  that  this  is  their  Magda. 

Magda  calls  to  visit  them  in  her  rich  clothes,  bring- 
ing her  scent,  her  flowers,  her  triumph,  and  her  as- 
surance into  their  spare  home. 

Her  father  is  quite  unimpressed  by  her  success,  and 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     147 

looks  upon  her  as  an  erring  daughter  who  must  be 
rescued. 

Magda  loves  her  little  sister  and  wants  to  take  her 
back  with  her  to  her  hotel,  but  her  father  and  step- 
mother expect  Magda  to  come  and  stay  with  them. 

She  tries  to  give  them  some  idea  of  the  way  she 
lives,  with  servants,  courier,  and  secretary;  but  the 
Colonel  is  so  deeply  hurt  that  at  last  she  consents. 

Then  a  local  magnate  calls  with  a  bouquet  for 
Magda.  He  was  her  first  lover  and  he  deserted  her : 
he  did  not  know  she  had  a  child  by  him.  She  tells 
him  this,  and  scorns  his  offer  of  marriage  in  repara- 
tion. Marriage,  when  she  was  young,  would  have 
saved  her  from  shame  and  many  struggles,  but 
now 

Her  father  hears  of  this.  He  is  extravagantly 
grateful  to  the  Counsellor,  holding  the  view  that  a 
man  owes  nothing  to  the  woman  he  has  ruined;  or 
to  the  child  she  has  borne  him;  and  that  it  is  an  act 
of  great  generosity  on  the  part  of  the  Counsellor  to 
try  and  make  amends  for  what  he  has  done. 

The  father's  hand  shakes  incessantly;  Magda,  real- 
ising that  it  was  her  revolt  against  her  home  which 
produced  this  infirmity,  gives  way. 

A  message  is  sent  to  the  Counsellor.  He  comes 
back  full  of  fatuous  joy  and  glowing  with  self-grat- 
ification over  his  own  nobility. 

This  is  intolerable  to  Magda.  Finally  he  tells  her 
she  must  be  separated  from  her  child.  It  would 
ruin  his  career  to  have  a  child  in  the  house. 


148     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

Then  comes  the  final  scene.  Magda  indignantly 
takes  back  her  consent.  Her  father  enters.  She  tells 
him  of  the  sacrifice  she  is  asked  to  make. 

The  father  quietly  bows  the  lover  out  of  the  room, 
saying  he  will  speak  to  his  daughter  alone.  He 
gets  out  his  pistols,  determined  to  shoot  Magda  if 
she  disobeys  him. 

He  talks  of  honour  saved,  and  reputation  restored. 
Until  he  at  last  goads  Magda  into  asking  him  what 
he  would  say  if  he  found  that  the  Counsellor  had  not 
been  her  only  lover.  Her  father  calls  her  "strum- 
pet," lifts  his  pistol  to  shoot  her,  and  falls  dead  in 
a  few  moments  from  a  paralytic  stroke. 

The  characters,  all  except  one,  are  highly  coloured, 
almost  to  the  point  of  caricature;  but  Magda  herself 
in  her  revolt  against  a  narrow  society,  with  its  crude 
code  of  morals,  is  a  role  vibrant  with  life. 

London  had  seen  a  German  company  in  the  play, 
and  the  critics  had  condemned  it.  Sarah,  too,  had 
played  it  brilliantly — still  they  condemned  the  play. 

The  Telegraph  called  the  play  "hopelessly  dull, 
verbose,  and  commonplace,"  and  said: — 

"Unfortunately,  as  we  understand  the  play  and  the 
part,  Mrs  Patrick  Campbell  totally  misunderstood  both. 
She  substitutes  peevishness  for  passion,  and  petulance 
for  force.   .   .   . 

"There  is  nothing  disagreeable  or  unlovable  or  nerve- 
splitting  in  the  'Magda'  as  we  understood  her,  and  yet 
Mrs.  Campbell  in  every  line  and  accent  suggests  a  re- 
volt, a  tirade  against  constitutional  society," 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     149 

Referring  to  the  final  scene,  this  paper  says: 

"It  is  all  noise,  noise,  noise.  In  all  justice,  however, 
let  it  be  said  that  the  clever  English  actress  must  not  be 
held  wholly  accountable  for  a  poor,  dull  play,  and  what 
is  after  all  a  wretchedly  bad  part.  .  .  .  Never  was  such 
cheering  heard  in  a  theatre.  Mrs.  Campbell  was  called 
half  a  dozen  times  ...  a  dull  German  sermon!" 

These  letters  comforted  me: 


iiir 


Kensington  Square, 
"17th  June,   1896. 


u 


"In  the  cold  blood  of  next  day  I  still  think  your 
'Magda'  last  night  was  the  ablest  and  finest  thing  I  have 
ever  seen  you  do.  I  cannot  regret  on  any  account  that 
the  play  was  produced. 


"Jack. 

"33,  Brompton  Crescent,  S.W. 
"My  poor  Disheartened  One, 

"I  know  too  well  all  you  are  feeling  about  'Magda.' 
No  one  can  sympathise  with  you  better  than  I,  and  I 
feel  another  blow  for  myself,  for  to  my  mind  your  per- 
formance was  splendid,  and  as  the  best  authorities  say 
it  was  not,  then  maybe  I  am  wrong.  Oh,  it's  a  delight- 
fully simple  profession!  I  only  wish  the  critics  would 
come  and  play  the  parts,  for  it  seems  to  me  they  are  the 
only  people  who  know  how  they  should  be  played. 

"Well,  I  am  aware  I  am  not  clever,  but  I  am  pig- 
headed sometimes,  and  stick  to  my  opinion,  and  nothing 
will  change  my  opinion  of  your  Magda  that  it  was  ab- 

*J.  W.  Mackail. 


I50     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

solutely  true  in  every  phase,  and  I  admire  your  perform- 
ance only  second  to  your  Paula  Tanqueray.  'Them's 
my  sentiments  !'     Bless  you  ! 

"Yours  affectionately, 
"Winifred  Maude."* 
"My  love  to  'Buttons,'!  please!" 

And  this  letter  was  written  by  that  very  clever 
actress,  Miss  Rosina  Filippi,  after  the  revival  at  the 
Royalty  Theatre  in  May,  1900: — 

"Dear  Mrs.  Campbell, 

"Please  let  me  add  my  cry  of  enthusiasm  to  the  many 
hundreds  which  have  reached  you  to-day.  You  are 
great — grand — in  Magda.  The  higher  the  emotions, 
the  higher  you  rise  to  them.  It  is  glorious,  and  I  am 
very  grateful  to  you  for  having  given  us  all  such  a 
triumphant  performance.  I  hope  all  London  will  see 
you  and  that  it  may  be  many  and  many  a  day  before 
you  piffle  again  in  such  horrors  as  Moonlight  Blossom, 
or  even  The  Canary.  Lord!  to  think  that  you  have 
Magda  in  your  soul,  and  that  you  give  us  Mrs.  Temple 
Martin!     Never,  never,  never  do  it  again. 

"Yours  affectionately, 

"Rosina  Dowson."'^ 

According  to  the  notes  in  front  of  me,  I  played 
Lady  Teazle  in  The  School  for  Scandal,  at  the 
Lyceum,  seventeen  days  after  Magda.  It  is  true  the 
part  was  not  new  to  me.     I  had  played  it  at  a  mat- 

•  Mrs.    Cyril    Maude. 

t  My    little    griflfon. 
♦  Miss  Rosina    Filippi. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     151 

inee  four  years  before.  Mr.  William  Farren — over 
eighty  years  of  age — played  Sir  Peter  with  the 
traditions  of  his  father  and  grandfather  in  the  part 
in  his  bones. 

Never  once  did  Sir  Peter  address  himself  to  me. 
The  audience  was  his  friend,  his  companion,  and 
to  them  he  confided  his  emotions.  There  were  in 
the  cast  others  of  this  fine  old  school,  and  their  tradi- 
tional method  **sat  on  my  head" — a  green  baize  over 
the  singing  bird's  cage. 

I  was  tired  out,  too,  the  collapse  that  came  later 
was  well  on  its  way,  and  my  work  was  becoming  de- 
moralised.    I  let  things  go. 

The  following  letter  from  my  dear  uncle  alludes 
to  my  state  of  mind: — 

"Sunday. 
"Dear  Demoralised  Thing, 

"No,  not  demoralised — never  be  that.  Be  different 
from  all  others,  be  the  one.  If  Art  has  pushed  too  many 
over  the  precipice  as  being  creatures  of  wretched,  lump- 
ish clay,  spite  of  all  their  pretended  aspirations,  still 
you,  walk  you  safely,  securely  along  the  edge;  a  true  god- 
dess, not  less  human  than  they,  with  every  fibre  of  mind 
and  body  as  sensitive  as  theirs,  but  possessing  within 
yourself  an  element  of  supreme  fineness,  a  dignity,  a 
splendid  individuality,  to  which  only  the  truest,  the  high- 
est, can  attain. 

"Of  one  of  his  great  knights,  Ariosto  says,  'Natura 
el  fare,  e  poi  ruppe  la  stampa' — 'Him  Nature  fashioned, 
then  broke  the  mould.'  A  peerless  knight,  the  like  of 
whom  was  never,  never  to  be  seen  on  earth  again.     Why 


152     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

not  you  as  peerless  in  your  own  sphere?  You  can  be. 
Art  has  placed  in  your  hair  the  undying  laurel.  What 
will  you  do  for  the  honour  of  Art?  Lay  upon  her 
shoulders  the  golden  robe?  Or  cast  over  her  incom- 
parable form  the  rumpled  drapery,  the  chiffonage  of 
demoralisation. 

'At  least  two  things  remember — do  not  allow  your- 
self to  deceive  yourself.  Then  you  can  surely  pack  off 
demoralisation  with  her  bedraggled  skirts  back  across 
the  Styx  into  her  horrid  steaming  lair — forever. 

"But  perhaps  I  have  not  rightly  understood  your 
meaning  of  demoralisation.  If  so,  then  forgive  this 
rhapsody. 

"Uncle." 

In  November  of  this  year  I  went  to  the  Avenue 
Theatre,  then  under  Miss  Elisabeth  Robins'  manage- 
ment, and  played  The  Rat  Wife  in  Little  Eyolf, 
thankful  for  the  chance  of  being  able  to  do  some- 
thing for  her. 

Uncle  wrote  on  November  12th: 

"I  understand  exactly  your  feelings.  I  knew  what  a 
gratification  it  would  be  to  you  to  do  a  service  to  Miss 
Robins." 

Miss  Janet  Achurch,  who  played  the  leading  char- 
acter, fell  ill,  and  I  was  asked  at  a  moment's  notice 
to  play  her  part  of  Rita  in  this  play.  It  was  an 
alarming  ordeal,  for  I  was  unable  in  the  time  given 
me  to  learn  the  words — I  believe  it  was  only  a  day. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS      153 

I  tied  the  book  by  a  ribbon  to  my  waist  and  practi- 
cally read  it. 

I  remember  Mr.  Asquith  was  in  the  house  and 
warmly  congratulated  me,  and  the  following  letters 
show  I  got  through  with  credit: 

"4,  Whitehall  Court,  S.W. 
"My  dear  friend, 

"You  were  divine  and  the  book  was  scarcely  noticed. 
Mes  felicitations!  You  have  scored  a  triumph,  and  I 
know  you  deserved  it. 

'Yours  most  sincerely, 

"Wm.  Heinemann." 

"Avenue  Theatre, 

"Northumberland  Avenue, 
"loth  December,  1896. 
"My  dear  Mrs.  Campbell, 

"Being  unable  to  do  so  personally,  I  send  these  few 
lines  to  endeavour  in  some  way  to  thank  you  for  your 
splendid  and  timely  assistance  in  coming  to  our  rescue 
to-night.  You  are  indeed  'true  blue,'  and  should  the 
opportunity  ever  arise  of  showing  my  appreciation  of 
your  good  nature  and  courage,  I  shall  gladly  welcome  it. 
"Trusting  your  extraordinary  exertions  to-day  will  not 
produce  any  ill-effect,  and  again  tendering  to  you  my 
sincere  thanks, 

"Believe  me, 

"Yours  very  truly, 

"F.  J.  Harris.'' 

I  find  also  a  letter  from  Mr.  Archer  praising  my 
performance  of  The  Rat  Wife  in  this  play  and  his 


154     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

views  as  to  my  playing  Rita  at  so  short  a  notice: 

"34,  Great  Ormond  Street,  W.C. 
"Dear  Mrs.  Campbell, 

"Mr.  Heinemann  gives  me  to  understand  that  you 
wanted  to  hear  my  view  as  to  your  playing  Rita.  They 
are  entirely  favourable  to  yaur  doing  so.  Of  course, 
I  cannot  pretend  that  I  don't  regret  the  circumstances 
which  have  thrown  the  part  open;  but  since  they  have 
occurred,  I,  for  my  part,  can  only  rejoice  in  the  prospect 
of  seeing  you  in  the  character.  I  have  always  felt  that 
it  is  one  of  the  greatest  parts  ever  written,  and  your 
rendering  of  it  could  not  fail  to  be  enormously  interest- 
ing and  attractive.  If  you  see  your  way  to  undertaking 
it,  you  will  certainly  have  all  my  good  wishes. 

"Let  me  once  more  congratulate  you  upon  The  Rat 
Wife.  My  own  feeling  about  it  you  already  know,  but 
I  don't  think  I  have  ever  heard  any  performance  talked 
of  with  such  unanimity  of  admiration. 

"Wherever  I  go  I  hear  no  dissentient  voice. 

"Yours  very  truly, 
"William  Archer." 

In  February,  1897,  Pat  introduced  Mr.  Robertson 
to  Mr.  Horatio  Bottomley,  who  interested  himself,  I 
believe,  in  financing  Nelson's  Enchantress,  a  play 
Mr.  Robertson  put  on  at  the  Avenue  Theatre.  It 
was  unconvincing,  and  was  not  a  success. 

Then  the  fatigue  that  had  been  gradually  threat- 
ening me  for  many  months  reached  the  climax.  / 
could  not  work  any  more. 

The  thought  of  "giving  in"  was  unbearable  to  me, 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     155 

but  I  was  persuaded  by  my  husband,  my  people,  and 
my  friends  to  stop  work  altogether  for  a  time. 

My  loved  friend,  Margaret  Mackail,  persuaded 
me  to  go  into  a  nursing  home,  and  she  smiled  away 
my  despair  at  my  ''nervous  breakdown." 

As  the  doctor  held  my  pulse  I  laughed,  with  tears 
pouring  down  my  cheeks,  declaring  I  was  all  right. 
He  said  gravely,  "All  the  acting  has  done  this." 

Oh,  that  queer  feeling  when  I  was  just  falling  off 
to  sleep,  that  awful  apprehension  that  "something 
most  important  was  left  undone."  That  horrible 
start! — and  then  the  long,  wakeful  nights,  and  the 
everlasting  tears. 

What  an  odd  experience  it  was.  They  put  me 
into  a  little  room,  with  a  window  out  of  which  I 
could  only  see  the  sky;  the  door  was  left  wide  open, 
and  a  nurse  or  the  doctor  sat  by  my  bed  alternately, 
I,  turning  and  tossing  about,  unable  to  rest.  No 
medicine  was  given  me,  only  massage,  which  I  could 
not  stand ;  no  letters,  no  friends,  no  name  of  anyone 
belonging  to  me  mentioned.  The  doctor — Dr.  Em- 
bleton,  now  dead — was  an  extraordinarily  gentle, 
kind  man;  he  used  to  hold  my  hand  and  tell  me  I 
had  "worked  too  hard,  and  felt  too  much,"  and  that 
all  I  needed  was  sleep;  if  I  were  lonely  I  could  get 
up  and  dress,  go  downstairs  and  go  out.  I  do  not 
exactly  remember  what  happened.  Either  they 
thought  me  cured,  or  they  were  afraid  to  continue 
longer  such  strict  quiet.  After  eight  weeks  I  came 
away. 


156     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

Perhaps  if  I  had  been  trained  in  the  Dramatic 
Art,  I  would  have  known  how  to  spare  my  emotional 
temperament,  and  to  depend  a  little  on  skill,  tech- 
nique and  "tradition" — that  awful  word — I  won- 
der  

The  doctors  ordered  me  to  Malvern.  Then  my 
dear  friend,  Mrs.  Percy  Wyndham,  hearing  of  my 
illness,  wrote  saying  that  Lady  Queensberry  was  go- 
ing abroad  and  would  be  delighted  to  lend  me  her 
little  house  at  Salisbury — lovely  Hatch  House — its 
beautiful  walled  garden-  with  the  postern  gate — 
Queen  Elizabeth,  as  a  girl,  had  walked  in  the  rose 
garden  there. 

Sybil  Queensberry  left  her  servants  to  take  care 
of  me;  and  her  carriage  for  me  to  drive  about  in  this 
most  beautiful  part  of  England;  and  she  said  my 
children  must  join  me  there,  and  my  dogs,  and  any 
friends  I  liked.  What  a  dream  of  beauty  and  peace 
it  was. 

The  following  letters  refer  to  this  time,  and  show, 
too,  that  my  spirit  was  sorely  troubled: 

"It  was  really  comforting  news,  dear,  to  hear  that  you 
are  well  enough  to  write  and  to  receive  letters.  Your 
deep  seclusion  created  a  cruel  blank  in  the  world,  that 
was  becoming  absolutely  painful.  If,  however,  it  has 
helped  to  give  you  back  to  certain  health  and  to  calmer 
and  happier  views  of  life,  It  deserves  and  It  will  receive 
our  sincere  and  heartfelt  commendations.  The  wish  in 
our  hearts,  however,  was  that  your  eight  weeks'  retire- 
ment might  be  succeeded  by  the  invigorating  sweets  of 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS      157 

a  sea  voyage.  Think  what  store  of  health  and  strength 
the  sea  change  would  endow  you  with,  and  you  would  re- 
turn from  it  to  your  profession  and  to  the  stage,  really 
and  truly  a  'new  woman'  indeed,  in  the  worthy  sense, 
of  course,  not  in  the  'fin  de  sickly'  significaticwi  of  the 
phrase.  .   .   ." 

".  .  .  .  Of  course  I  understand  about  your  struggle; 
it  could  not  be  otherwise,  but  I  felt  sure  of  you,  and  that 
whatsoever  fight  you  might  have  to  fight,  you  would  come 
out  of  the  struggle,  conquering  and  not  conquered.  .  .  . 
Only  be  brave.   .   .   ." 

"Uncle" 

"Dearest  Uncle, 

"You  have  been  right,  you  always  said  I  never  saw 
people  and  things  as  they  were,  that  I  lived  in  dreams — 
now  I  see,  now  I  know,  and  I  think  the  knowledge  has 
nearly  finishe'd  me. 

"Where  did  you  get  all  your  philosophy  and  unselfish- 
ness? 

"I  am  quite  strong  again  physically — nervously,  per- 
haps, not  quite  right  yet.  There  are  st)  many  things 
I  cannot  bear  to  think  of.   .   .   . 

"A  big  dose  of  my  dear  Beo  and  Stella  at  Hatch 
House  will  do  me  a  lot  of  good. 

"I  do  understand  about  the  'depressing  feeling.' 
You  wanted  to  help  me,  and  you  felt  you  could  not,  and 
it  made  you  wretched,  but  you  did  help  me,  all  the  same. 

"I  wish  you  were  here  with  me.  Don't  grudge  me 
letters,  say,  ask  what  you  like. 

"I  had  a  long  bicycle  ride  alone  yesterday  afternoon 
all  through  lovely  lanes.  I  found  a  pretty  church  built 
by  Earl  Beauchamp  and  went  in  to  rest.  Presently  the 
clergyman  came,  and  five  people,  and  there  was  evensong. 


1^8     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

The  doors  were  all  open  and  the  birds  chirping.  The 
painted  window,  his  droning  voice,  it  was  cool  and  rest- 
ful.  .   .  . 

"Beatrice" 

Pat  at  this  time  was  working  hard  in  the  City  and 
trying  his  best  to  help  me  in  my  collapse. 

"Dearest  Stella, 

"Of  course  if  you  feel  you  are  able,  I  think  it  would  be 
best  for  you  to  join  Robertson  again  at  the  Lyceum. 
London  will  be  very  glad  to  have  you  back.  Do  not 
start  with  Shakespeare;  cannot  Robertson  get  a  new  play 
or  a  translation  from  some  really  good  French  play? 

"...  I  am  so  glad  you  have  the  children  with  you, 
they  are  such  dears. 

"God  bless  you  all. 

"With  love, 

"Daddy." 

Mr.  Forbes  Robertson  had  written  to  me  saying 
he  was  taking  the  Lyceum  in  September  to  open 
in  Hamlet  and  offering  me  Ophelia.  I  felt  very 
nervous.  I  knew  once  more  I  would  be  up  against 
"tradition":  but,  I  could  not  afford  to  refuse. 

"Killarney  House, 

"Killarney. 
"Dearest  Beatrice, 

"This  is  only  a  line  of  blessing  to  you  and  good  wishes 
for  you  and  your  health  and  for  your  success  in  what 
you  are  now  doing.     I  hope  you  are  feeling  the  benefit 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     159 

of  your  rest  at  Hatch;  dear,  lovely,  restful  little  Hatch. 

"I  did  so  enjoy  seeing  you  there,  and  wish  you  had 
had  a  little  bit  more  of  it,  but  again  I  say,  I  think  you 
will  feel  better  when  you  are  working,  and  you  must  give 
your  whole  heart  and  soul  to  it,  so  as  to  make  the  best 
Ophelia  that  has  ever  been!  For  it  is  so  touchingly 
beautiful,  and  your  part  will  not  be  very  long,  and  you 
can  get  away  early  from  the  theatre,  and  early  to  bed 
•will  be  the  thing  for  you  for  some  time  to  come. 

"Keep  your  spirits  up. 

"I  believe  in  an  awfully  good  time  to  come  for  you. 
I  prophesy  it. 

"Ever  yours  most  affectionately  and  believingly, 

"Madeline  Wyndham." 

One  paper,  probably  The  Telegraph,  said  I  had 
"distinguished"  myself,  because  I  was  the  first  actress 
who  had  ever  made  a  failure  of  Ophelia. 

I  remember  Mr.  George  Wyndham*  saying  he 
thought  I  was  the  best  Ophelia  he  had  even  seen, 
and  Mr.  Sargent,  too,  paid  me  many  compliments. 

There  were  bad  notices  and  good  notices  and  many 
letters  of  fulsome  praise. 

One  night  I  was  very  naughty — egged  on  by  the 
continual  criticism  of  playing  Ophelia  in  my  own 
hair,  I  played  half  the  part  in  my  dark  hair  and 
half  in  a  fair  wig.  Miss  Ellen  Terry  was  among  the 
audience — I  wanted  to  know  which  she  liked  best — 
I  never  heard  that  she  alluded  to  it. 

♦The    Rt.    Hon.    George   Wyndham,   M.P. 


i6o     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

It  was  odd  to  me  that  my  singing  was  much  praised, 
just  as  my  dancing  was  praised  in  Juliet — for  I  can 
neither  sing  nor  dance — 

When  Sir  Henry  Irving  came  onto  the  stage  after 
a  performance,  he  put  his  arm  round  me  and  said, 
"Beautiful,  my  child,  beautiful."  But  the  real 
truth  was  that  Miss  Terry  had  given  such  a  lovely 
Ophelia  to  the  world — still  fresh  in  everyone's  mem- 
ory— there  was  no  room  for  mine. 


Ui 


'Clouds, 

"Salisbury, 
"October  21st,  1894. 
"Dearest  Beatrice, 

"Thank  you  so  much  for  your  dear,  kind  letter. 
Think  of  your  being  made  happier  or  better  by  my 
appreciation  of  your  work — ridiculous!  But  it  comes 
from  your  affectionate  heart  and  nature;  you  place  my 
power  of  judging  far,  far  too  high,  as  it  is  only  formed 
on  'a  certain  instinct,  more  than  on  knowledge  or  learn- 
ing! To 'be  of  any  real  use  in  the  world,  to  be  a  'good 
or  useful  critic'  (how  I  hate  the  word),  one  ought  to 
have  both — instinct  for  the  beautiful  and  the  knowledge 
of  it.  Had  I  to  choose  one  only,  I  should  choose  the 
first — instinct  for  it — as  beauty  is  the  only  thing  in  this 
world  almost,  that  can  be  enjoyed  without  the  other !  but 
can  be  of  no  use  to  others,  without  learning!  One  can- 
not pass  it  on,  knowledge  and  learning  cannot  teach  it, 
or  make  one  possess  it.  But  instinct  can  make  one  enjoy 
it.  One  may  read  about  beauty  and  learn  about  it  till 
one  is  black  in  the  face;  but  without  the  instinct  for  it, 
never  enjoy  it.  That  my  simple  enjoyment  of  your  work 
should  please  and  encourage  you  touches  me  more  than 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     i6i 

I  can  say!  I  wish  my  opinion  were  more  worth  having, 
yet,  as  I  have  been  trying  to  say,  I  beheve  in  instinct  on 
such  matters  in  all  things  beautiful  to  be  the  true  and 
a  more  trustworthy  thing  than  mere  knowledge.  'A 
little  knowledge  is  a  dangerous  thing,'  a  true  instinct  a 
reliable  thing!  And  I  am  sure  I  am  right  in  my  opinion 
of  this  giving  of  Hamlet.  I  cannot  help  feeling  flat- 
tered, yet  more  than  ever  humbled,  for  I  know  what 
you  find  in  me,  all  comes  from  yourself,  but  I  thank  God, 
all  the  same,  that  He  has  put  something  Into  me  that 
makes  it  possible  to  be  as  it  is,  that  those  who  are  so  far 
above  me  in  intellect  and  power  should  find  a  resting 
place  in  my  sympathy  for  their  souls.   .  .   . 

"Your  loving 

"Madeline  Wyndham." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

I  HAVE  an  idea  that  it  was  again  Mr.  Horatio 
Bottomley  who  helped  financially  with  the  re- 
vival of  Hamlet  at  the  Lyceum;  also  with  the 
next  interesting  venture — a  tour  Mr.  Forbes  Robert- 
son made  in  Germany. 

I  had  a  great  treasure  in  my  pocket — Maeter- 
linck's play,  Pelleas  et  Melisande.  I  accepted  the 
offer  to  accompany  Mr.  Robertson,  if  on  our  return 
he  would  produce  Pelleas  and  Melisande;  this  he 
agreed  to  do. 

The  plays  we  took  to  Germany  were  Hamlet, 
Macbeth,  and  The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray. 

There  was  some  talk  to  the  effect  that  Queen  Vic- 
toria had  requested  the  Emperor  not  to  patronise 
with  his  presence  this  play  of  Mr.  Pinero's.  I  do 
not  know  if  it  was  true,  but  he  certainly  did  not. 

During  Macbeth  the  Emperor  sent  for  us  and 
gave  us  gifts — to  Mr.  Robertson  a  scarf  pin,  to  me  a 
bracelet. 

In  the  middle  of  Macbeth  there  was  a  long  entr'- 
acte whilst  Royalty  ate  a  meal:  how  hopelessly  dis- 
concerting to  the  sequence  of  the  performance. 

I  was  struck  by  the  Emperor's  personality:  the 
impression  of  intellectual  force,  the  powerful  voice — 
the  heavy  moustache  turned  up  at  the  ends — pierc- 

162 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     163 

ing  steel  blue  eyes — and  the  little  withered  hand — 
a  gold  bangle  on  the  wrist. 

I  remember  he  said  to  me,  'T  wish  you  would 
teach  my  actors  not  to  shout." 

The  German  criticisms  were  interesting:  they 
called  us  "nerve  aristocrats"! 

Also  this  letter  from  Lady  Edward  Cavendish: 

"British  Embassy, 

"Berlin, 
"i6th  March,  1898. 
"Dear  Mrs.  Campbell, 

"I  was  sorry  to  be  out  when  you  called  on  Sunday,  1 
should  have  liked  to  have  told  you  what  a  pleasure  it  has 
been  to  see  you.  I  thought  Macbeth  altogether  beauti- 
ful, and  it  was  a  great  pleasure  to  see  it  so  wonderfully 
given.  Besides  the  great  enjoyment  of  seeing  such  act- 
ing, your  gowns  were  gorgeous  and  lovely,  and  I  must 
congratulate  you  heartily  on  the  great  success  you  have 
had.   .   .   . 

"The  Emperor  has  just  been  with  my  brother.  He 
is  loud  in  the  praises  of  you  and  Mr.  Forbes  Robert- 
son. .  .  .  He  thinks  the  rendering  of  Hamlet  and  Mac- 
beth were  the  most  perfect  he  had  ever  seen,  and  he  was 
full  of  admiration. 

•       •       •       • 

"Emma  E.  Cavendish." 

On  our  return  to  England  Mr.  Robertson  pro- 
duced Pelleas  and  Melisande  at  the  Prince  of  Wales 
Theatre  on  21st  June  for  nine  matinees. 

Maeterlinck's  play  came  to  my  notice  in  this 
way: 


1 64     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

One  day  Jack  Mackail  brought  me  as  an  offering 
his  translation  of  this  lovely  work,  written  out  in 
his  own  fine  hand. 

This  archaic  poem  of  beauty,  passion  and  loveli- 
ness, unthumb-marked  and  un-dog-eared  by  "tra- 
dition," gave  me  peace  and  certainty — I  had  come 
into  my  own. 

I  knew  Melisande  as  though  she  had  been  part  of 
me  before  my  eyes  were  open. 

I  knew  I  could  put  the  beauty  of  the  written  word 
into  colour,  shape,  and  sound. 

Mr.  Robertson  thought  the  play  weak  and  morbid : 
his  brother,  Ian  Robertson,  said,  "Why  do  you  want 
to  make  such  a  damned  fool  of  Forbes?"  I  was 
adamant:  the  contract  had  to  be  kept. 

I  cannot  remember  Mr.  Mackail  coming  to  any 
rehearsal;  but  with  letters  of  advice,  sketches  and 
suggestions  he  guided  me.  And  the  lovely  gold 
dress  I  wore  was  suggested  by  Sir  Edward  Burne- 
Jones. 

I  battled  through  at  the  theatre,  arguing  and  in- 
sisting; warmly  supported  in  my  enthusiasm  and 
feeling  by  Mr.  Martin  HarveyJs  full  understanding, 
and  appreciation  of  the  beauty  of  the  poem. 

The  incidental  music  needed  was  a  most  important 
element.  I  felt  sure  M.  Gabriel  Faure  was  the  com- 
poser needed.  My  friend,  Mr.  Frank  Schuster,  ar- 
ranged a  meeting  between  us  at  his  house  in  Queen 
Anne's  Gate.     I  had  not  spoken  French  since  my 


IN       THE   SECOND    MRS.    TANQUERAY 


r" 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     165 

visit  to  Paris  seventeen  years  before,  but  I  stumbled 
through  somehow^,  reading  those  parts  of  the  play 
to  M.  Faure  which  to  me  called  most  for  music. 

Dear  M.  Faure,  how  sympathetically  he  listened, 
and  how  humbly  he  said  he  would  do  his  best!  His 
music  came — he  had  grasped  with  most  tender  in- 
spiration the  poetic  purity  that  pervades  and  en- 
velops M.  Maeterlinck's  lovely  play. 

Mr.  Martin  Harvey's  melancholy  face,  his  curious 
timbre  of  voice,  his  scholar's  delight  in  cadence, 
helped  him  to  invest  the  part  of  Pelleas  with  an  un- 
earthly glamour;  and  Mr.  Robertson's  classical  pro- 
file, manly  voice  and  general  distinction  were  in- 
valuable. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  the  whole  of  the  ac- 
tion of  this  play  takes  place  in  one  of  those  gloomy 
ancient  castles,  by  the  sea,  which  Maeterlinck  has 
always  used  as  symbolical  of  the  prison  life  is  to  the 
soul;  their  ancient  impregnable  walls,  their  long 
tradition  of  sorrow,  crime  and  tragedy,  stand  for 
life  in  the  flesh:  and  the  sea,  the  illimitable  sea,  is  al- 
ways there  to  speak  of  eternity,  and  the  wild  sea  birds, 
of  freedom. 

Melisande's  ignorance  of  her  own  birth — her  sense 
of  exile — her  grief  by  the  pool  where  she  has  lost 
her  crown — are  all  symbolic  of  the  soul  in  life. 

Then  comes  the  contact  with  man's  desire,  Golaud's 
love  born  of  passion;  a  contact  which  teaches  her 
nothing:  which  awakens  no  love — only  fear. 

As  the  play  proceeds,  Pelleas  and  Melisande  dravi^ 


i66     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

nearer  and  nearer,  each  finding  in  the  other  the 
yearning  of  their  soul's  fulfilment,  and  in  their  very 
purity,  deceiving  themselves  into  the  shadow  of 
death. 

Melisande  leans  out  of  the  window  of  the  tower : — 

My  long  hair  falls  over,  all  down  the  tower, 

My  hair  waits  for  my  lover,  hour  after  hour, 

St.  Daniel  and  St.  Michael, 

St.  Michael  and  St.  Raphael, 

I  was  born  on  a  Sunday,  on  a  Sunday  at  noon. 

Pelleas  hears  her,  and  comes  under  the  window; 
as  he  tries  to  touch  her  hand,  her  hair  becomes  en- 
tangled in  a  bough — human  love  has  caught  her — 
her  being  is  awakening!  .  .  . 

A  scene  of  extreme  beauty  is  when  she  goes  to 
meet  Pelleas  in  the  wood  and  he  tells  her  he  is  go- 
ing away.  Again  the  two  lovers  have  escaped  from 
the  gloom  of  the  prison  to  say  good-bye,  and  under 
the  moon  and  stars  they  cling  to  one  another;  they 
are  free,  they  live,  they  love. 

Pelleas:     "Tout  les  etoiles  tombent  sur  mol." 
Melisande:  "Sur  moi  aussi,  sur  moi  aussi." 

.But  their  shadows  are  still  in  the  world,  and  Go- 
laud  stands  at  the  edge  of  their  shadows  in  the  wood, 
and  all  the  jealousy  and  mad  lust  of  a  man  possess 
him,  and  he  kills  his  brother,  Pelleas. 

The  end  is  all  pity,  pity  for  Golaud  who  does  not 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     167 

understand :  for  Melisande  who  has  brought  his  child 
into  the  world  and  is  dying:  for  Pelleas  who  is  dead. 
The  play  ends  with  the  birth  of  another  soul.  It  is 
the  old  grandfather  who,  lifting  the  little  one,  says 
to  Golaud,  "It  is  the  child's  turn  now." 

In  the  early  morning  of  the  day  of  the  last  re- 
hearsal, Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones  died.  I  read  it 
first  on  the  placards  as  I  left  the  theatre. 

"44,  Belgrave  Square. 
"Dearest  Beatrice, 

"I  must  write  to  you  although  I  can  say  nothing. 
Your  heart  is  with  Margaret  to-day,  this  bitterest  of 
days  for  Margaret  and  all  his,  mine  is  with  her  also.  .  .  . 
And  I  really  grieve  for  you  to  have  to  act  to-morrow 
with  this  on  your  heart,  but  so  life  goes  on. 

"He  was  to  have  dined  (they  were  all  coming  to- 
night) with  me  for  my  birthday,  but  now  he  dines  in  the 
Courts  of  Heaven.     The  King  of  Kings  needed  him. 

"Ever  yours  affectionately, 
"Madeline  Wyndham." 

The  play  had  an  overwhelming  success,  M.  Maet- 
erlinck being  still  more  warmly  hailed  as  the  Bel- 
gian Shakespeare.  Mr.  Robertson  was  lauded  for 
his  discovery  and  his  discernment. 

I  have  often  wondered  why  Mr.  Robertson,  who 
had  been  so  loth  a  convert,  did  not  disclaim  the  hon- 
our of  the  enterprise. 

But  the  main  triumph  was  that  a  thing  of  beauty 
had  been  given  to  the  theatre  forever. 


i68     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

There  were  many  hundreds  of  criticisms.  The 
critics  were  on  their  nettle.  At  the  moment  I  can 
only  find  one,  the  rest  must  have  gone  to  the  Amer- 
ican manager,  when  I  produced  the  play  in  the 
States. 

^''The  Guardian. 

"...  One  love  scene  challenges  comparison  with  the 
most  beautiful  in  the  world,  where  Melisande  leans  out 
of  the  window  and  Pelleas  tries  to  kiss  her  hand.  She 
lets  her  long  black  hair  fall  down  until  it  touches  his 
shoulders.  He  knots  it  to  the  branches  and  makes  her  a 
willing  prisoner.  Whether  as  a  piece  of  literature  it 
will  bear  comparison  with  the  balcony  scene  of  Romeo 
and  Juliet  I  cannot  say,  for  nobody  who  saw  It  could 
judge  it  merely  as  literature.  It  is  not  given  to  many 
women  in  a  generation  to  be  so  beautiful  as  was  Mrs. 
Campbell,  when  she  leant  out  from  the  window,  her 
whole  body  yearning  towards  her  boy  lover,  yet  with  un- 
conscious innocence  suggested  in  some  indescribable  way: 
playing  it  was,  play  you  felt  it  to  be,  yet  behind  every 
word  and  gesture  of  the  girl  at  play,  there  was  the  woman 
latent.   .   .   ." 

"Golaud:  'Vous  etes  des  enfants.  .  .  .  Melisande, 
ne  te  penche  pas  ainsi  a  la  fenetre,  tu  vas  tomber.  Vous 
ne  savez  pas  qu'il  est  tard.  II  est  pres  de  minuit.  Ne 
jouez  pas  ainsi  dans  I'obscurite.  Vous  etes  des  enfants 
.  .  .  (Riant  nerveusement)  Quels  enfants!  .  .  .Quels 
enfants!'  " 

I  give  letters  from  M.  Maeterlinck  and  others: 

"Dear  Madam, 

"I  need  not  tell  you  with  what  joy  I  read  of  your  great 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS      169 

triumph  in  the  papers  of  yesterday  and  of  the  day  be- 
fore. Nearly  all  have  endeavoured  to  say  how  su- 
premely perfect  and  wonderful  you  were.  Yet  the  most 
enthusiastic  did  not  throw  into  their  expressions  of  ad- 
miration half  that  ardour  which  I  could  have  wished  they 
had  done.  Maybe  that  only  he  whose  imagination 
produced  Melisande  can  appreciate  how  perfect  was  your 
presentment  of  her,  in  reality  more  lovely  and  more  life- 
like than  in  his  most  vivid  and  beautiful  imaginings  she 
had  ever  been.  Before  I  saw  you  I  did  not  know  that  a 
creature  of  one's  dreams  could  come  to  be  purer,  more 
harmonious,  and  more  adorable  even,  in  real  life.  You 
have  taught  me  that  one  need  never  be  afraid  of  dream- 
ing dreams  of  too  great  beauty,  since  it  is  our  good 
fortune  now  and  then  to  meet  a  privileged  being  who  can 
render  them  visible  and  real. 

"When  you  see  Mr.  Forbes  Robertson  please  convey 
to  him  my  sentiments  of  admiration  and  my  thanks.  He 
too  was  perfect;  he  was  in  a  word,  worthy  to  stand  at 
your  side;  and  he  too  redeemed  the  piece  more  than  once, 
even  as  you  redeemed  it  from  first  to  last. 

"In  a  few  words,  you,  and  the  delightful,  the  ideal 
Pelleas,  filled  me  with  an  emotion  of  beauty  the  most 
complete,  the  most  harmonious,  the  sweetest  that  I  have 
ever  felt  to  this  day. 

"Thank  you  once  more.  It  will  give  me  'infinite 
pleasure  to  see  you  again  on  Thursday. 

"M.  Maeterlinck." 


From   Maeterlinck  on  Campbell's  "Melisande"  to  Forbes-Robert- 
son's "Pelleas". 

STUPLAHO. 

WAREHAM. 


d^    Ui^U^     d</VL      OA^tt,    Cf^4MJiUA 
fiUM     t(^Ct^  jOC4^  l^CLd^  ' 


170 


171 


^^t^   a/t.^  f^'o^  yt^  dpci 


172 


«*^^ 


A/ 


173 


174     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

"23,  Young  Street, 
"7th  November,  1898. 
"Dearest  Stella, 

".  .  .  James  Barrie  writes  to  me  'I  don't  think  I  was 
ever  so  entranced  by  a  play;  I  came  out  of  the  theatre 
quite  light-hearted  with  delight.  Mrs.  Campbell  is  be- 
yond comparison;  better  than  she  has  ever  been  in  any- 
thing else.  .  .  .' 

"J.  M."* 

"Dearest  Stella, 

"This  performance  is  what  I  have  been  waiting  and 
longing  for,  for  three  years;  and  you  may  judge  what  I 
would  have  given  to  see  it,  but  I  could  not.   .  .   . 

"But  I  must  tell  you  that  one  of  our  people  here,  an 
unimpressionable  highly  educated  man  of  fifty  or  so  has 
just  come  back  from  seeing  the  last  performance  to 
which  he  went  merely  from  curiosity,  and  because  of  my 
name,  fully  expecting  to  be  bored. 

"He  was  carried  away  with  the  beauty  of  it  from  be- 
ginning to  end,  and  said  he  had  never  believed  in  you 
before,  but  did  now,  that  such  a  play  could  not  die.  .  .  . 

"Your  affectionate, 

"J.  M." 

"Limnerslease, 
"Guildford, 
"Thursday,  24th  Novem'ber. 
"My  dearest  Lady  Melisande, 

"I  must  write  to  tell  you  what  a  wonderful  pleasure 
yesterday  afternoon  was  to  me.  I  have  come  back  with 
a  strange  feeling  of  having  been  rested  and  smoothed 
out,  and  somehow  to-day  I  have  been  running  up  little 
hills  in  my  day's  work,  that  for  weeks  seemed  to  me  quite 

♦J.  W.  Mackail. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     175 

impossibly  high  and  steep.  That  is  the  effect  Melisande, 
Pelleas  and  Golaud  had  upon  me,  and  I  thank  them 
from  my  heart. 

"The  whole  thing  lifted  one  into  a  new  mysterious 
world,  in  a  way  not  easy  to  understand,  except  that  one 
knows  one  has  been  drawn  out  on  a  wave  of  beautiful 
things,  colour,  sound,  movement,  charm,  and  that  one 
has  been  passing  over  the  boundaries  of  reality  into  a 
place  as  living  and  real,  but  which  one  can  never  touch 
or  reach. 

"I  suppose  only  genius  can  take  one  there,  and  it 
seemed  to  me  that  your  acting,  and  Mr.  Forbes  Robert- 
son's was  full  of  it,  and  indeed  every  part  went  without 
a  jarring  sound. 

"You  have  got  the  spirit  of  a  beautiful  Burne-Jones 
picture  into  it  all;  how  wonderful  it  is  to  have  done  that 
for  us. 

"I  should  have  liked  to  come  and  thank  you  on  the 
spot,  but  I  felt  that  no  one  ought  to  ask  for  a  minute 
more  of  you,  you  had  given  so  much,  and  I  hear  that 
there  is  an  evening's  work  to  drain  you  still  more.  I 
have  told  Signor  G.  F.  Watts  about  it  as  well  as  I  could, 
it  made  him  talk  again  and  again  of  it  to-day. 

"Good-bye,  dear  beautiful  Melisande,  may  all  good 
and  blessed  things  be  about  you,  and  may  they  repay  you 
in  your  own  heart's  desires  for  all  you  gave  to  me  yester- 
day. 

"Yours  affectionately, 
"Mary  Watts."* 

"133,  Gloucester  Road,  S.  W., 

"6th  November,  1&98. 
"Dear  Mrs.  Campbell, 

"I  saw  your  Melisande  yesterday,  and  it  gave  me  ex- 

*  Mrs.  Watts,  wife  of  the  great  artist  G.  F.  Watts. 


176     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

quisite  delight.  It  seemed  to  me  that  what  you  have 
been  trying  to  do  with  your  art  for  this  last  year  or  two 
rather  hazily,  you  had  suddenly  accomplished  so  trium- 
phantly that  the  result  Is  sheer  beauty.  The  whole  thing 
is  a  joy  to  look  at,  and  listen  to,  a-nd  think  about,  and 
I  can't  resist  the  desire  to  tell  you  how  It  Inspired  me. 

"Yours  sincerely, 
"J.  M.  Barrie.'^ 

Madame  Sarah  Bernhardt  was  brought  to  see  the 
play  by  Mr.  W.  Clarkson,  the  popular  wigmaker. 
She  was  very  much  moved  by  its  beauty,  expressing 
a  warm  wish  to  play  Pelleas  with  me.  I  thought  it 
only  a  pretty  compliment  she  was  paying  me. 

Six  years  afterwards  on  one  of  her  visits  to  Lon- 
don for  a  short  season  at  His  Majesty's  Theatre, 
Stella  and  I  went  to  meet  her  at  the  Carlton  Hotel. 
Sarah  took  me  up  to  her  bedroom  and  pointed  to  a 
little  cot  where  a  child  was  asleep,  with  a  roll  of 
parchment  tied  up  with  ribbon,  at  her  feet.  "Voila 
'Yniold,' "  Sarah  said:  she  had  taught  the  little 
thing  her  role  in  Pelleas  and  Melisande,  and  Sarah 
herself  was  ready  to  play  Pelleas  with  me.  My  dear 
Sarah.  At  first  I  was  very  nervous  at  the  thought 
of  acting  in  French.  Sarah  only  laughed  at  me, 
saying  Melisande  would  speak  French  just  as  I 
did,  and  that  she  could  play  Pelleas  with  no  one 
else. 

Lady  Eden  *  lent  me  her  children's  French  govern- 
ess, Mademoiselle  Drouin,  to  live  in  my  house  for 

*The  beautiful   wife  o"   Sir   William  Eden. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     177 

two  weeks.  She  talked  her  perfect  French  with  me 
practically  all  day  and  half  the  night,  besides  coach- 
ing me  in  the  pronunciation  of  the  actual  words  of 
Melisande. 

So  I  ventured — how  dared  I? 

I  took  the  rehearsals,  and  the  company  never 
smiled  as  I  "directed"!  Sarah  altered  nothing,  but 
asked  my  permission  to  turn  her  back  to  the  wall 
of  the  tower  that  my  hair  might  fall  over  her  face! 
Her  Pelleas  was  a  wonder.  She  carried  her  body 
with  such  ecstasy  and  breeding:  her  voice  was  the 
voice  of  a  youthful  melancholy  spirit,  gradually 
melting  into  a  tenderness,  that  more  than  once  almost 
rendered  me  speechless  for  fear  of  breaking  the  spell. 

Mr.  W.  L.  Courtney,  in  The  Daily  Telegr-aph, 
wrote : — 

"When  criticism  has  nothing  to  say  one  may  be  sure 
something  has  been  seen  rare,  and  strange  and  beautiful: 
Madame  Bernhardt,  in  the  very  beginning,  found  her 
note  and  kept  it,  low  in  tone,  and  rich  in  music.  Mrs. 
Campbell's  Melisande  is  known  to  us  from  one  or  two 
previous  representations.  We  venture  to  say  that  in  its 
French  form  it  is  more  gracious  and  childlike  and  poetic 
than  we  have  ever  seen  it  before.  Scene  after  scene 
passed  with  short  intervals,  and  the  air  of  mystery  and 
unreality  was  never  broken.  We  watched  the  first  meet- 
ing at  the  Fountain,  we  heard  the  quiet  fatalism  of  old 
age  uttered  by  the  lips  of  Arkel.  We  saw  the  slow 
development  of  the  unescapable  tragedy  enveloping  all 
the  characters  as  it  were  with  vague  and  shadowy  nets, 
and  the  light  was  one  which  never  was  on  sea  or  land, 


lyS     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

and  we  were — spectators  and  actors  alike — such  stuff 
as  dreams  are  made  of.  Once,  and  once  only,  did  we 
seem  to  touch  earth.  It  was  in  the  fine  scene  where 
Golaud,  in  a  mad  access  of  jealousy,  holds  up  the  little 
Yniold  to  the  window  to  watch  the  two  lovers  within. 

"We  have  never  seen  a  better  Golaud  than  that  of 
M.  Decoeur.  ...  As  one  watches  this  Melisande  the 
words  rise  to  one's  lips:  'Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she 
sings?'  For  she  too  has  caught  the  secret  of  'old  un- 
happy far  off  things  and  battles  long  ago.'  " 

During  a  previous  season  of  Sarah's  in  London  the 
play  she  produced  had  not  been  a  success  financially 
(a  Napoleonic  play,  I  forget  the  name),  and  at  the 
moment  Sarah  was  hard  pressed  for  money:  to  my  de- 
light she  sent  M.  Pitou*  to  ask  if  I  could  help  her. 
Wonderful  to  relate,  I  had  a  hundred  pounds  in  the 
bank,  and  I  thanked  heaven  that  I  was  able  to  do  her 
a  service. 

During  one  of  these  performances  of  Pelleas  and 
Melisande,  Sarah  Bernhardt  returned  to  me  the 
hundred  pounds,  in  five  pound  notes,  in  a  little  silver 
casket,  before  the  many  people  who  were  in  my 
dressing-room.  She  said  how  grateful  she  was  to 
me — the  simple  graciousness  of  her  act!  Did  she 
ever  know,  I  wonder,  how  my  heart  almost  choked 
me? 

Sarah  is  the  most  generous  of  women.  I  think 
she  feels,  as  I  have  often  felt,  that  money  belongs  to 
those  who  need  it  most.     Unfortunately,  as  this  feel- 

*  M.  Pitou  had  been  Madame  Sarah  Earnhardt's  secretary  for  some- 
thing over  twenty  years. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     179 

ing  slowly  beggars  us,  it  changes,  alas!  or  it  should! 

A  story  of  a  really  generous  man,  told  me  by  Sir 
Edward  Burne-Jones,  comes  to  my  mind. 

A  friend  came  to  a  generous  man  to  borrow  twenty- 
four  pounds.  The  generous  man  had  only  twelve 
pounds  in  the  world.  These  he  gladly  gave  to  his 
friend ;  but  afterwards,  whenever  they  met,  the  gen- 
erous man  hung  his  head:  he  felt  he  owed  his  friend 
twelve  pounds. 

In  July,  1905,  a  year  later,  on  Madame  Bernhardt's 
next  visit  to  London,  she  and  I  went  to  the  provinces 
meaning  to  give  only  a  few  performances  of  the  play. 
But  we  met  with  such  a  brilliant  success  that  we 
played  it  every  day  for  three  w^eeks.*  OnJy  in. 
Dublin  did  one  critic  demur.     He  wrote : 

"Mrs.  Campbell  played  Melisande,  Madame  Bern- 
hardt Pelleas;  they  are  both  old  enough  to  know  better." 

There  are  delicious  memories  of  this  three  weeks' 
tour.  A  little  story  Madame  Bernhardt  told  me  of 
her  first  arrival  in  America  touched  me  very  much. 
She  carried  a  rather  large  handbag  of  some  soft 
velvet  stuff.  On  landing,  the  official  insisted  on  look- 
ing inside.  They  found  a  small  bundle  tied  carefully 
with  ribbon.  Sarah  implored  them  not  to  open  it, 
"je  vous  en  prie.  Messieurs,  je  vous  en  prie"  They 
insisted.  It  contained  her  son's  first  baby  shoes  of 
white  patent  leather,  and  his  first  little  baby  shirt. 

*  Sarah  paid  me  £240  a  week,  and  £35  for  each  additional  perform- 
ance, and  paid  all  travelling  expenses.  I  provided  the  scenery  and 
dresses. 


i8o    MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

I  remember  one  night  a  discussion  we  had  on 
"flirting."  Sarah  took  this  word  very  seriously;  she 
said  that  flirting  stirred  and  excited  animal  passion. 
That  flirting  was  a  peculiarity  of  English  men  and 
women.  A  French  woman  loves  and  gives  herself; 
but  to  excite  passion,  "pour  passer  le  temps" — 
"never,"  she  declared.  I  said  she  was  wrong,  that 
"flirting"  and  "coquetry"  were  one  and  the  same 
thing:  the  effect  it  produced  depended  entirely  on 
the  man  and  woman's  moral  character.  She  laughed 
and  shrugged  her  shoulders  unconvinced.  She  told 
me  that  on  her  first  visit  to  England  a  supper  was 
given  in  her  honour;  she  was  treated  like  a  queen, 
and  felt  a  queen.  Her  host,  when  seeing  her  to  her 
carriage  "stole  a  kiss."  She  did  not  speak  to  him 
again  for  years.  It  was  abominable^  she  said,  abom- 
inable. It  showed  he  had  no  respect  for  her.  I 
tried  vainly  to  explain  that  flirting  did  not  necessar- 
ily mean  kissing,  she  only  repeated  abominable. 

Sarah's  love  of  animals  is  very  remarkable,  and 
she  was  always  buying  a  new  pet.  One  morning  at 
the  hotel,  when  we  were  playing  together  at  Liver- 
pool, I  heard  strange  and  terrible  growls,  and  coarse 
men's  voices  coming  from  her  room.  I  went  in 
and  found  two  low-looking  ruffians.  They  had  in- 
side a  large  iron  cage  a  wild  tiger-cat.  Sarah  was 
saying,  "II  sera  plus  heureux  si  vous  ouvrez  la  porte," 
pointing  to  the  not  very  secure  iron  door  of  the  cage. 
The  men  were  suggesting  that  the  door  could  be 
opened  later,  and  that  they  wanted  £30. 


WITH    MADAME    SARAH    BERNHARDT    IN    "PELLEAS    AND    MELISANDE" 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS      i8i 

It  was  not  till  I  persuaded  Sarah  that  such  animals 
cannot  be  tamed,  and  that  it  would  break  out  of  the 
cage  in  an  hour  or  so  and  probably  eat  her  up,  that 
she  said  it  might  be  a  trouble  on  tour  and  she  would 
not  keep  it.  The  men  were  furious,  and  I  had  great 
difficulty  in  getting  rid  of  them. 

On  one  occasion  I  remember  Sarah  was  charged 
in  her  hotel  bill  for  thirty  or  forty  bottles  of  beer 
for  her  servants.  We  had  stayed  there  only  one  day 
and  night. 

Sarah  was  tired,  and  did  not  stop  to  think  that  her 
servants  might  have  treated  friends;  she  only  knew 
they  could  not  have  drunk  so  many  bottles  of  beer. 
The  manager  was  sent  for,  and  she  argued  with  him 
until  she  raged.  Hearing  the  raised  voices  I  went 
into  the  room.  The  man  was  white  and  trembling; 
and  I  saw  Sarah  was  almost  ill  with  anger.  When 
I  had  grasped  her  argument,  I  turned  to  the  man- 
ager, saying:  "What  matter  how  many  bottles  of 
beer  have  been  drunk,  how  dare  you  contradict 
Madame?"  My  voice  was  the  loudest,  and  the  man 
rushed  distracted  from  the  room. 

Her  company  indiscreetly  told  me  that  Madame 
Sarah  had  never  been  known  to  make  fun,  or  to  laugh 
on  the  stage.  In  a  tobacconist's  shop  I  saw  a  to- 
bacco pouch  made  in  the  shape  of  a  fish,  and  painted 
to  represent  one.  I  bought  it,  took  it  to  the  theatre, 
and  tied  it  down  to  a  bit  of  canvas  at  the  bottom  of 
the  well  at  the  Fountain. 

At  the  performance,  when  Sarah  came  to  the  sec- 


i82     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

ond  act  and  stood  by  the  fontaine  des  aveugles,  she 
spied  the  fish  and  began  improvising  about  les  pois- 
sons  la.  .  .  .  She  stooped  gracefully  over  the  edge 
to  take  the  fish  out;  as  it  was  tied,  she  nearly  lost  her 
balance.  Without  concern  she  went  on  calmly 
with  her  part.  I  laughed,  spoiling  my  lovely  little 
scene. 

When  the  curtain  fell  Sarah  did  not  allude  to  what 
had  happened,  neither  did  L  The  next  day  when  we 
lunched  together  she  had  a  strange,  preoccupied  ex- 
pression on  her  face.  Later,  at  the  matinee,  when 
we  came  to  the  Cave  scene,  at  the  point  where  she 
tenderly  takes  my  hand  and  helps  me  over  the  rocks, 
she  took  hold  of  my  hand,  hard — squash — she  held 
a  raw  tgg  in  hers. 

I  did  not  smile,  but  with  calm  dignity  I  went  on 
with  my  part.  I  can  see  now  the  tears  of  laughter 
trickling  down  her  cheeks,  and  her  dear  body  shaking 
with  merriment  as  I  grew  more  and  more  dignified  to 
the  end  of  the  scene. 

Her  company  told  me  afterwards  almost  with  awe, 
that  Madame  must  love  me  very,  very  much. 

The  most  beautiful  performance  I  have  ever  seen 
was  a  performance  Sarah  gave  of  Phedre — she 
held  a  crowded  house  spellbound  for  over  two  hours, 
with  scarcely  a  movement  or  gesture  to  detract  from 
the  lovely  Alexandrines — the  great  pulsating  passion 
seemed  to  wind  about  the  audience  like  a  web — it 
was  magic. 

They  tell  me  Sarah  had  seen  the  great  RachePs 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     183 

performance — what  1  saw  was  her  own:  I  knew  it 
by  the  sequence  of  its  beauty. 

The  world  knows  her  genius  and  her  colossal 
courage;  but  not  everyone  knows  the  thought  and 
affection  she  has  always  ready  in  her  heart  for  her 
friends. 

At  a  most  tragic  moment  for  her,  she  remembered 
my  anxiety  and  sent  me  this  cable  to  America: 

''Doctor  will  cut  off  my  leg  next  Monday.  Am  very 
happy.     Kisses  all  my  heart. 

"Sarah  Bernhardt,  Bordeaux." 

To  go  back  to  1 898,  Pel  leas  and  Melisande  at  the 
Lyceum  was  followed  in  September  by  Mr.  Robert- 
son's production  of  Macbeth.  We  had  already 
played  it  in  the  English  provinces  and  in  Germany. 

I  have  since  learned  that  it  was  easier  to  act 
Lady  Macbeth  with  Mr.  Robertson  than  with  Mr. 
James  Hackett,  with  whom  I  played  the  part  after- 
wards in  1920. 

Perhaps  Mr.  Robertson  was  inclined  to  look  upon 
Lady  Macbeth  as  the  "star"  part,  to  use  the  word  of 
the  theatre.  Mr.  Hackett  surely  looked  upon  Mac- 
beth as  the  solar  system.  It  seemed  to  me,  he  real- 
ised my  presence  only  at  his  "cues,"  and  more  than 
once  seized  the  opportunity  during  a  strong  speech 
of  mine  to  turn  his  back  to  the  audience  and  clear 
a  troublesome  catarrh. 


i84     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

We  were  all  proud  of  Mr.  Hackett's  success.  It 
was  undeniable:  his  splendid  Salvini-like  voice — no 
perceptible  American  accent — made  a  great  im- 
pression. /But  he  had  a  strange  effect  upon  me;  I 
could  not  for  one  moment  forget  I  was  on  the  stage. 
On  his  first  night  I  was  suffering  from  an  influenza 
cold ;  an  apology  to  the  audience  would  have  de- 
pressed the  occasion;  there  was  nothing  to  do  but 
get  through. 

I  wore  Melisande's  dresses  (twelve  years  old  and 
made  of  gossamer).  The  dresses  for  Lady  Macbeth 
in  Mr.  Hackett's  wardrobe  did  not  fit  me,  so  that  in 
no  way  was  I  in  tune  with  Mr.  Hackett's  overwhelm- 
ing Macbeth. 

Mr.  Bernard  Shaw  wrote  to  me  at  the  time  as  fol- 
lows: 

Macbeth  as  a  production  was  an  ancient  Victorian 
absurdity.  Hackett  is  still  in  the  eighteenth  century. 
He  would  have  done  just  as  well  with  Miss  R —  S — ,  as 
you  could  have  done  just  as  well  with  Mr.  A —  S — ; 
the  intervals  with  the  entr'acte  music  played  sixteen  times 
over  killed  the  play.  People  know  that  it  is  not  Shakes- 
peare who  is  the  bore,  and  that  B or  B A 

could  have  made  a  success  of  it  with  principals  at  £15  a 
week. 

*As  it  happened,  when  I  saw  It,  you  made  only  a  few 
blunders: 

"i.  You  should  not  have  played  the  dagger  scene  In 
that  best  evening  dress  of  Lady  M.,  but  In  a  black  wrap, 
like  a  thunder  cloud,  with  a  white  face. 

"2.  You  should  not  have  repeated  the  exit  business  by 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     185 

which  Macbeth  conveyed  that  he  was  going  to  see  a 
ghost  on  every  step  of  the  stairs  up  to  Duncan. 
You  should  have  gone  straight  off  like  a  woman  of 
iron. 

"3.  You  should  not  have  forgotten  that  there  was 
blood  on  your  hand  and  on  his,  and  that  you  dared  not 
touch  one  another  for  fear  of  messing  your  clothes  with 
gore. 

"4.  In  the  sleep-walking  scene,  you  should  not  have 
rubbed  your  hands  realistically  (drat  the  blood,  it  won't 
come  off) ,  nor  worn  an  idiotic  confection  that  wound  your 
feet  up  more  and  more  at  every  step  and  finally  pitched 
you — off  the  stage — on  your  head.  That  scene  needs 
the  whole  cavernous  depth  of  the  stage  and  the  draperies 
of  a  ghost.  It  was  maddening  to  hear  you  deliver  the 
lines  splendidly  and  be  in  a  different  class  to  all  the 
others  and  then  throw  it  all  away  by  half  a  dozen  stu- 
pidities that  the  call  boy  could  have  corrected.   .   .  . 

"G.  B.  S." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  was  out  of  gear  v^ith  Mr. 
Hackett's  method,  and  by  his  side  my  performance 
was  very  ineffective. 

But  I  must  not  jump  the  years  like  this. 

Of  the  Lyceum  performance,  I  quote  Mr.  A.  B. 
Walkley's  criticism:  "Mrs.  Campbell's  Lady  Mac- 
beth is  also  novel  and  interesting,  but  it  is  also  some- 
thing more,  and  something  very  important — it  is  a 
perfectly  possible  and  plausible  interpretation  of  the 
character.  .  .  .  There  are  reasons  a  priori  why  Mrs. 
Campbell  should  find  no  particular  difficulty,  'mod- 
ern' though  she  be,  with  the  part  of  Lady  Macbeth. 
Where  her  modernity  comes  in  is  in  the  substitution 


1 86     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

of  a  mysterious  sensuous  charm  for  the  conventional 
domineering  of  a  virago.  I  have  tried  to  sum  up 
this  type  in  the  words  of  'Baudelairean.'  I  see  that 
my  friend,  the  theatrical  critic  of  The  Leader,  calls 
it  an  Aubrey  Beardsley  type,  which  is  another  way 
of  putting  exactly  the  same  thing.  The  woman 
clings  and  kisses  and  casts  a  spell,  she  magnetises 
her  Thane.  When  words  fail  she  rests  her  two  hands 
on  his  shoulders,  almost  winds  herself  round  him, 
looks  him  straight  in  the  eyes  with  a  strange  smile, 
and  the  poor  man  melts  like  wax.  It  is  the  'Baude- 
laire' enchantress,  the  'femme  serpent,'  and,  as  I  have 
already  said,  it  delights  me — partly  because,  like 
every  other  man  in  the  audience,  I  cannot  but  feel 
something  of  the  fascination  that  overcomes  Macbeth, 
partly  because  it  appeals  to  me  as  true,  for  Mac- 
beth was  moulded  by  his  wife,  not  merely  by  the  in- 
fluence of  a  strong  will  over  a  faltering  will,  but 
by  the  witchery  of  woman  over  man." 


CHAPTER  X. 

IN  June,  1899,  I  produced  Carlyon  Sahib,  by 
Professor  Gilbert  Murray,  at  the  Kennington 
Theatre.  It  met  with  little  success,  though  it 
seemed  to  me  a  very  good  play. 

At  this  time  some  friends  of  mine,  including, 
among  others,  Lord  Grey,*  Dr.  Jameson,f  and  the 
late  Lady  Meux,  offered  to  put,  under  the  control  of 
Mr.  Bouchier  F.  Hawksley,  £12,000  (at  some  ar- 
ranged interest  and  return  of  their  money)  to  "back" 
me  in  management. 

The  enterprise  filled  me  with  enthusiasm,  but  I 
felt  ungrateful  at  the  idea  of  exploiting  myself  in- 
dependently of  Mr.  Forbes  Robertson,  after  the  fine 
parts  I  had  played  under  his  management,  and  I 
begged  that  he  should  be  included  in  the  venture. 

This  at  first  met  with  some  objection,  but  finally 
I  won  my  way. 

Mr.  Robertson  was  under  contract  to  produce  a 
Japanese  play,  The  Moonlight  Blossom,  by  Mr.  C. 
B.  Fernald  (author  of  the  Cat  and  the  Cherub).  As 
I  remember,  he  agreed  to  join  me  if  this  play  was  our 
first  production.  Though  I  did  not  particularly 
care  for  Mr.  Fernald's  play,  I  accepted  the  con- 

*  Late  Governor-General  of  Canada. 
t  Sir   Starr   Jameson. 

187 


i88     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

dition,  and  we  started  management  at  the  Prince  of 
Wales  Theatre  in  September,  1899,  with  The  Moon- 
light Blossom. 

The  production  was  a  most  expensive  one;  the 
piece  a  disastrous  failure.  The  papers  said  Mr. 
Robertson  looked  like  "Widow  Twankey,"  Mr. 
Bernard  Shaw  wrote  that  I  was  "a  child  playing  a 
tune  with  one  finger";  our  attempt  at  impersonating 
Japanese  met  with  no  success. 

To  try  and  save  the  situation  we  added  to  the 
programme,  after  about  three  weeks,  a  one-act  play, 
The  Sacrament  of  Judas;  translated  from  the  French 
of  M.  Louis  Tiercelin  by  Mr.  Louis  N.  Parker  for 
Mr.  Robertson.  This  one-act  play,  though  success- 
ful, unfortunately  did  not  help  matters  financially. 

The  next  production  was  The  Canary,  by  George 
Fleming,  (Miss  Constance  Fletcher),  on  November 
15th.  Mr.  Robertson's  personality  was  not  suited 
to  any  character  in  this  comedy,  and  he  decided  to 
break  our  partnership.  This  seemed  to  me  unfair 
to  the  enterprise;  so  much  money  having  been 
dropped  on  The  Moonlight  Blossom,  and  the  ex- 
pense of  launching  the  dual  management.  However, 
I  returned  him  his  plays,  and  Mr.  Gerald  du  Maur- 
ier  acted  the  leading  part  in  The  Canary. 

My  losses,  I  was  told,  were  over  £5,000.  There 
was  nothing  to  do  but  to  get  into  a  smaller  theatre 
and  try  and  pull  things  through.  This  I  did,  taking 
the  Royalty  at  a  rental  of  £90  a  week.     I  opened 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     189 

there  on  the  28th  of  January,  continuing  the  run  of 
The  Canary;  and  retaining  the  business  staff  of  the 
Prince  of  Wales — including  Mr.  Ian  Robertson 
(Mr.  Forbes  Robertson's  brother)  as  stage  man- 
ager. 

On  February  19th  I  revived  Mag  da,  and  played 
with  it  Mrs.  Jordan,  a  charming  one-act  play  by 
Miss  Constance  Smedley.  The  work  was  hard  and 
my  responsibilities  great,  but  I  was  supported  by 
an  excellent  company. 

The  following  letter  shows  my  effort  was  some- 
times obvious  to  the  audience: 

"3,  Whitehall  Gardens,  S.  W., 

"February  28th,  1900. 
"Madam, 

"It  appears  from  the  papers  that  you  propose  playing 
Magda  and  Mrs.  Jordan  at  two  matinees  weekly,  in 
addition  to  nightly  performances. 

"I  was  fortunate  enough  to  see  your  impersonation  of 
both  characters  last  night,  and  the  absolute  pathos  of 
your  appearence  at  the  close  of  the  second  act,  utterly 
tired  out — 'done,'  as  you  seemed — haunts  me  still,  and 
led  many  of  those  round  me  to  express  their  fears  that  the 
task  you  had  set  yourself  would  prove  too  heavy.  May 
I,  if  I  may  do  so  without  offence,  voice  what,  I  am  sure, 
must  have  been  the  feeling  of  the  whole  house  last  night, 
and  ask,  for  the  sake  of  the  public,  who  cannot  afford  to 
run  any  risk  of  losing  you — apart  from  any  considera- 
tion of  yourself — that  you  spare  yourself,  if  possible, 
the  terrible  strain  of  at  least  one  of  the  two  weekly  mat- 
inees? 


190     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

"Could  you  have  seen  yourself  as  we  saw  you  last 
night,  you  would  understand  how  the  house  felt  about 
you,  and  would  pardon,  as  I  trust  you  will,  the  expression 
of  that  feeling. 

"Pittite." 


Magda  ran  five  months.  An  incident  of  some  in- 
terest occurred  during  this  revival. 

Mr.  Albert  Gran  gave  a  very  remarkable  perform- 
ance in  the  insignificant  part  of  the  young  lieutenant, 
Max  von  Wendelov^ski — the  late  Lord  Wemyss  told 
me  this  clever  young  actor  appeared  to  bring  the 
German  army  on  to  the  stage  with  him. 

Mr.  Gran  had  to  leave  me  in  a  itw  weeks  to  keep 
a  contract  he  had  with  another  management,  but 
he  promised  to  give  in  his  fortnight's  notice  after  the 
first  week,  wishing  to  return  and  continue  in  his  suc- 
cess with  me. 

I  asked  Mr.  Ian  Robertson  to  engage  Mr.  Gran- 
ville Barker  for  the  period  of  Mr.  Gran's  absence, 
and  this  he  did. 

After  Mr.  Gran  returned  to  the  Royalty,  Mr. 
Granville  Barker  wrote  to  me  saying  he  was  entitled 
to  his  salary  for  the  run  of  Magda.  I  discussed  the 
matter  with  Mr.  Bouchier  Hawksley,  who,  after,  I 
believe,  some  correspondence  with  Mr.  Barker,  ad- 
vised me  to  take  the  matter  into  court,  as  there  was 
neither  letter  nor  contract  to  support  Mr.  Barker's 
claim. 

I  was  interested  in  the  idea  of  being  in  a  court, 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     191 

and  dressed  myself  in  my  best.  Mr.  Barker,  on  the 
other  hand,  seemed  to  me  to  appear  in  very  shabby 
clothes  and  a  much  worn  straw  hat. 

Mr.  Fred  Kerr — that  delightful  actor — stated  that, 
unless  specially  stipulated  by  letter  or  contract,  the 
precedent  was  a  fortnight's  notice. 

I  went  into  the  witness-box  and  explained  that  I 
had  made  it  clear  to  my  stage  manager,  that  Mr. 
Granville  Barker's  services  were  required  only  dur- 
ing Mr.  Gran's  absence. 

Mr.  Barker,  in  the  witness-box,  whilst  admitting 
there  w^as  no  letter  or  contract  said  the  verbal  un- 
derstanding between  him  and  Mr.  Ian  Robertson 
was  "for  the  run  of  the  play,"  otherwise  he  would  not 
have  accepted  the  engagement. 

Mr.  Ian  Robertson,  on  being  called,  remarked  that 
he  did  not  remember  what  he  had  said  in  the  in- 
terview with  Mr.  Barker.  He  was  chided  by  the 
judge,  who  asked  him  if  it  was  not  his  business  to  re- 
member, or  words  to  that  effect. 

The  Jury  left  the  court  and  returned,  giving  the 
verdict  to  the  plaintiff — £60  was,  I  think,  the  sum 
claimed. 

I  turned  to  Mr.  Hawksley  and  said:  "What  do 
I  do  now?" 

"Go  and  shake  hands  and  congratulate  him,"  he 
replied  with  a  smile. 

Mr.  Granville  Barker  did  not  look  as  triumphant 
as  I  thought  he  ought  to,  and  I  will  go  to  my  grave 
believing  that  he  owes  me  £60. 


192     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

My  management  at  the  Royalty  was  a  success, 
both  with  the  critics  and  the  public.  My  work  had 
become  more  free,  and  more  assured;  but  nothing 
could  be  done  financially,  against  most  disastrous  dif- 
ficulties. 

The  Boer  War  was  breaking  people's  hearts,  and 
then — later — Queen  Victoria's  death,  which  emptied 
the  theatres  for  many  weeks. 

At  home  we  were  all  anxious.  Pat  had  decided 
to  join  Lord  Chesham's  Yeomanry,  and  he  left  for 
Africa  towards  the  middle  of  March,  1900. 

On  April  the  5th  poor  Pat  was  killed. 

I  remember  how  I  heard  the  news.  My  uncle 
met  me  at  the  theatre.  It  was  Saturday;  there  had 
been  two  performances.  He  said:  "Let  us  drive  to 
the  War  Office  and  see  if  there  is  any  news."  He 
told  me  to  wait  in  the  hansom.  He  returned  in  a 
few  moments,  saying:  "There  is  no  news."  For  the 
rest  of  the  drive  he  was  silent. 

When  we  arrived  at  my  house  in  Kensington 
Square  we  went  in  and  sat  in  the  dining  room.  I 
noticed  how  white  and  drawn  his  face  was  and  how 
questioningly  he  looked  at  me.  I  spoke  of  my  plans 
at  the  theatre.  Suddenly  there  was  a  knock  at  the 
front  door.  I  opened  it.  Mr.  Shackle — Pat's 
friend  and  my  acting  manager — stood  there.  He 
said:  "It's  true."  I  asked:  "What  is  true?"  He 
answered:  "Pat  is  killed."  I  realized  that  uncle 
had  known  all  the  time. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     193 

We  three  sat  without  speaking;  at  last  uncle  said: 
"I  don't  like  leaving  you  alone,  dear."  I  answered: 
"Stella  is  sleeping  with  me  to-night." 

Then  they  left — letting  themselves  out. 

A  strange  thing  happened.  I  found  I  could  not 
move  from  my  chair.  How  long  it  was  before  I 
pulled  myself  up  and  was  able  to  get  to  the  foot  of 
the  stairs  I  do  not  know,  but  I  remember  well  the 
climb  up  the  staircase,  both  hands  on  the  one  banis- 
ter. .  .  . 

I  took  Stella  in  my  arms.  .  .  . 

I  whispered  very  gently  to  her  what  had  hap- 
pened— "Poor  Daddy  has  been  killed" — I  felt  her 
little  body  tremble;  she  held  me  tightly.  "Oh, 
mother,"  she  said.  .  .  . 

I  kept  quite  quiet  and  she  fell  asleep  again.  .  .  . 

I  thought  of  my  boy  studying  for  his  entrance  ex- 
amination into  the  Navy — it  might  put  him  ofif  his 
work — 

Gradually  I  fell  into  a  very  deep  sleep — 

Sunday,  the  front  door  bell  rang  and  rang;  letters 
and  cards  were  dropped  into  the  letter-box.  Mon- 
day brought  many  hundreds  more.  I  saw  one  or  two 
friends;  they  seemed  strangers  to  me.  The  theatre 
was  closed ;  it  was  Holy  Week.  I  went  away  with 
Stella  into  the  country.     My  boy  wrote: — 

"H.  M.  S.  Britannia, 

"Dartmouth. 
"My  darling  Mother, 

"Thank  you  so  much  for  your  letter.     I  am  so  mis- 


194     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

erable  about  poor,  dear  daddy.  The  chaplain  has  just 
told  me  about  him.  I  want  to  be  at  home  so  much  now 
to  be  able  to  comfort  you.  I  was  confirmed  to-day  by 
the  Bishop  of  Exeter.  Only  one  week  and  four  days 
now  to  the  holidays.  All  next  week  is  exams.  Poor, 
dear  daddy!  It  was  rather  hard  the  news  coming  on 
my  confirmation  day.  Don't  worry,  mummy,  dear.  I 
wish  I  was  home  to  comfort  you. 

"With  all  the  world  and  the  stars  and  seas  and  sun  full 
of  love  and  kisses  and  comfort  from. 

"Your  Loving  Son. 
beo. 

And  again  he  wrote : — ■ 

"Darling  Mother, 

"Thank  you  so  much  for  the  telegram.  I  had  a  talk 
with  the  chaplain,  and  decided  to  wait  till  the  end  of  the 
term,  as  two  of  the  exams  count  in  the  final  examination: 
but  I  wish  I  could  come  home  a  day  earlier — that  is,  on 
the  Wednesday,  as  there  will  be  such  a  bustle  on  the  last 
day,  and  the  chaps  who  are  in  the  carriage  I  am  in  will 
want  to  fool  about,  and  they  might  not  just  because  I  was 
there.  On  Wednesday  I  could  travel  down  with  a  very 
nice  boy  called  FitzGibbon.  He  was  one  of  the  first 
to  hear  about  poor  daddy,  and  he  sent  me  a  letter,  which 
he  put  in  my  locker.  I  enclose  it.  This  boy  has  to  go  to 
France,  and,  therefore,  goes  a  day  earlier.  Tell  me 
what  you  think. 

"Give  my  lovingest  love  to  Stella. 

"I  am  glad  daddy  died  fighting  and  doing  his  duty, 
for  you  have  to  die  some  time,  and  it's  much  better  to  die 
gloriously  than  at  home  in  bed. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     195 

"All  the  world  and  stars  and  suns  and  moons  full  of 
love. 

"Your  loving  son, 

"Beo." 


"Dear  Mrs.  Campbell, 

"Your  son  was  confirmed  by  the  Bishop  of  Exeter 
yesterday,  and  I  was  so  sorry  to  have  to  tell  him  after- 
wards of  his  loss.  He  is  in  grief,  but,  as  he  says,  he  can- 
not realise  it  fully;  it  will  come  with  memory  later.  I 
have  had  further  talk  with  him  to-day,  and  he  thinks  per- 
haps he  had  better  face  his  sorrow  and  just  go  on  with 
his  work  and  the  coming  examination,  especially  as  the 
end  of  the  term  is  near,  when  he  can  join  you.  Captain 
O'Callaghan  left  him  free  to  do  what  he  thought  best 
about  coming  home,  and  he  has  decided  in  this  way.  I 
think  that  under  the  circumstances  your  son  has  taken 
a  right  view  of  what  is  best  to  be  done.  He  is  not  a 
boy  who  loses  his  balance  easily,  and,  though  he  is  in 
grief,  I  think  he  will  acquit  himself  creditably  in  his  ex- 
amination.* 

"A.  W.  Plant  (Chaplain)." 


Lord  Chesham  cabled: — 

"PATRICK  CAMPBELL  WAS  KILLED  INSTANTANEOUSLY 
IN  FINAL  ATTACK,  AND  WAS  BURIED  WITH  MILITARY 
HONOURS  IN  BOSHOF  CEMETERY.  I  HAVE  WRITTEN  YOU 
FULL    DETAILS.'^ 

*Beo   passed,   at  his  first  trial,   fifth  on   the  list  in   his   first  competi- 
tive examination  in  life,  out  of  two  hundred  competitors  of  the  same  age. 


196    MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

"Camp  Moliens  Farm, 
"Orange  Free  State, 
"loth  Imperial  Yeomanry. 
"My  dear  Mrs.  Campbell, 

"I  write  to  you  in  great  grief  to  tell  you  how  sincerely 
we  of  the  loth  Imperial  Yeomanry  sympathise  with  you 
in  the  terrible  affliction  which  has  come  to  you.  We 
feel  with  you  and  for  you.  We  have  lost  a  fine  soldier 
and  a  good  friend,  and  honour  him  for  himself;  at  the 
same  time  he  has  ended  his  short  career  with  the  great- 
est honour  that  can  come  to  a  man. 

"We  attacked  the  enemy.  Patrick  Campbell  was 
among  the  first  (we  were  within  fifty  yards  of  the  Boers 
with  fixed  bayonets  and  charging)  when  he  fell,  death 
being  instantaneous.  We,  his  comrades,  honour  him  as  a 
brave  soldier,  and  the  ten  prisoners  (chiefly  Frenchmen) 
also  said  to  me  how  gallantly  our  men  had  fought.  No 
one  was  doing  better  in  the  regiment  than  your  husband, 
and  his  loss  will  be  much  felt.  We  lost  two  officers  be- 
sides, and  our  three  brave  comrades  now  lie  in  the  ceme- 
tery at  Boshof,  with  the  French  general  (who  was  killed 
in  the  action),  Villebois  de  Mareuil,  near  to  their  graves. 

"We  buried  them  by  moonlight  on  April  6th  with  many 
a  sore  heart  as  the  bugles  sounded  'The  Last  Post'  over 
the  graves  of  three  as  brave  Englishmen  as  had  fallen  in 
the  war. 

"I  hope  you  will  forgive  me  writing  to  you  as  I  do. 
I  have  had  much  trouble  myself,  and  so  write,  knowing 
how  powerless  attempts  at  any  comfort  are  and  how  little 
good  writing  can  do,  but  to  assure  you  of  the  very  deep 
sympathy  all  ranks  of  the  regiment  offer  to  you  and  of  the 
high  respect  they  feel  for  your  gallant  husband. 

"Believe  me, 

"Yours  sincerely 
"Chesham." 


Courtesy  Sun  and  New   York  Herald  Syndicate 

IN  "mrs.  Jordan" 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     197 

I  find  my  letter  to  my  uncle  written  during  Holy 
Week : — 


"Sevenoaks. 
"My  darling  Uncle, 

"We  are  quite  safe  and  it's  beautiful  here,  and  now  I 
am  going  to  try  and  write  some  letters.  Don't  you, 
dear  uncle,  feel  torn  and  worried?  Remember  all  you 
have  done  for  him  and  for  his  children  and  for  me  .  .  . 
and  if  you  didn't  discourage  him  from  going  remember 
his  going  has  brought  him  glory  and  peace  and  the 
everlasting  respect  and  honour  of  those  he  loved.   .   .   . 

"Don't  worry  about  me,  dear  uncle.  When  I  see 
you  again  I  shall  be  quite  brave  and  strong  and  ready  for 
work.     You  have  helped  me  bear  so  much.  .  .  . 

"Your  loving 
"Beatrice/' 

These  letters  brought  their  comfort: — 

"Saighton  Grange, 

"Chester, 
"May  17th. 
"Dearest, 

"I  think  of  you  so,  and  the  last  letters  must  be  reach- 
ing you  now.  I  have  copied  an  account  of  that  day  from 
a  letter  of  my  brother  *  to  his  wife,  which  I  enclose. 
I  daresay  you  would  rather  not  read  it  now,  dear  little 
one,  but  I  thought  you  might  like  to  put  It  by  with 
others  for  your  boy. 

"Do  not  answer  this;  it  must  be  such  a  hard  time  for 

*  Lord  Scarborough. 


198     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

you  now,  but  your  work  will  help  you.      I  hope  you  have 
seen  angel  Mrs,  Wyndham  and  George. f 

"Yours  Affectionately, 
t  "Sybil  Grosvenor." 


These  two  letters  from  Lord  Wemyss  were  written 
within  a  few  hours: 

"23,  St.  James,  Place, 

"Saturday  night. 

*      •      •      • 

"You  will  have  heard,  why  we  did  not  come  behind  the 
scenes  to  see  you,  and  surely  no  greater  compliment 
could  be  paid  to  a  great  artist,  than  the  tears,  the  soul- 
shaken  state  of  my  daughter  Hilda.*  She  says  she 
could  come  every  night,  and  I  feel  as  she  does — only, 
alas!  I  hear  now  almost  nothing;  and  thus  lose  so 
much  that  if  it  were  not  for  your  unequalled  expressive 
gestures,  I  had  best  stay  at  home. 

"How  delighted  your  audience  is  with  you.  The 
wonder  is  your  being  able  to  stand  a  matinee  as  well; 
you  looked  so  beautiful  throughout. 

"Hope  you  have  good  accounts  of  'My  Pat,'  and  that 
your  child's  knee  is  well. 

"All  good  with  Stella. 

"Yours, 

"W." 


tThe   Right    Hon.    George   Wyndham,    M.   P. 

t  The  Countess  Grosvenor,  wife  of  Mr.  George  Wyndham  and  mother 
of  the  present  Duke  of  Westminster. 
♦The    late   Lady    Hilda   Brodrick. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS      199 

"Sunday  morning. 
"Oh  my  poor  friend, 

"Is  there  anything  it  Is  possible  for  me  to  do?  You 
know  how  gladly  would  I  help  you,  body,  soul,  and 
spirit,  It  I  could.  Send  for  me  If  you  would  like  to  see 
me,  or  If  I  can  be  of  any  use  to  you  or  your  child. 

"And  to  think  of  you  last  night  and  this  morning! 
"The  enclosed  I  had  written  last  night  to  send  this 
mornIng„ 

"I  may  well  say,  'Good  with  Stella.' 

"Yours, 
"W." 

"Her  Majesty's  Theatre. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Campbell, 

"I  saw  the  report  of  your  husband's  death,  and  am 
writing  to  you  to  express  my  sincere  condolence.  You 
will,  I  know,  be  very  sad  at  his  loss,  but  he  could  not  have 
wished  for  a  better  death.  I  always  found  him  good 
and  kind  and  full  of  charm  and  love  of  you. 

u 

"Herbert  Tree." 

"Fountain  Court, 
"The  Temple. 
"Dear  Mrs.  Campbell, 

"I  cannot  help  (though  at  the  risk  of  seeming  in- 
trusive) writing  to  say  how  deeply  sorry  I  am  at  the 
news  I  have  just  heard,  coming  at  the  very  moment  when 
you  have  proved  to  the  whole  world  that  you  are  the 
only  actress  on  the  English  stage  worth  listening  to. 
It  Is  as  though  you  have  thus  to  suffer  to  counterbalance 
that  triumph  of  your  art,  but  do  remember,  even  while 
you  suffer,  that  only  suffering  greatens  one  when  one  Is 


200    MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

an  artist,  and  that  you  will  be  a  greater  artist  'in  the 
future  for  every  bit  of  suffering  that  you  go  through  now. 
There  is  no  other  consolation  for  unhappiness,  but  may 
one  not  accept  so  much  consolation?  It  is  what  I  wish 
for  you  with  all  my  heart. 

"Believe  me,  dear  Mrs.  Campbell, 

"Always  your  most  sincere, 
"Arthur  Symons." 

"Strode, 

"Ivybridge, 

"S.  Devon. 
"My  dearest  Mrs.  Campbell, 

"...  I  am  so  glad  to  feel  that  he  was  so  happy  the 
last  few  months,  and  I  like  to  think  of  how  well  and 
happy  he  looked  that  last  Sunday,  when  he  said  'Good- 
bye' and  he  was  so  full  of  hope.   ,   .  . 

"I  will,  if  you  like,  talk  to  you  more  of  the  days  at 
Enfield  when  he  used  to  talk  to  me  of  you.  He  always 
said,  'if  you  knew  her  you  would  love  her.'  I  do  love 
you,  and  I  would  give  anything  to  be  able  to  help  you 
bear  this  pain. 

"Yours  always, 
"Flo  SHACKLE."t 

After  joining  Lord  Chesham,  Pat  had  written  to 
me: — 

"White  Hart  Hotel, 
"Dearest  Stella, 

"I  am  hard  at  work  down  here  and  everything  looks 
very  bright  to  me.     I  messed  up  with  Lard  Chesham 

t  Mrs.    Frank    Shackle. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     201 

and  all  his  officers  last  night;  they  were  all  very  nice  to 
me,  and  I  think  I  shall  be  of  great  service  to  him.  I 
easily  passed  my  riding  and  shooting  test,  and  see  the 
doctor  to-morrow.  I  understand  I  shall  have  no  dif- 
ficulty in  passing  my  medical. 

"Chesham  has  asked  me  to  stay  down  to-morrow  and 
help  inspect  some  recruits  and  horses.  They  have  a 
splendid  lot  of  men  here,  and  he  hopes  to  get  us  off 
by  the  20th  at  latest. 

"I  am  so  glad  the  recitation  goes  so  well.  I  knew  it 
would. 

"With  love  to  you  and  the  children. 

"Pat." 

"I  really  think  I'll  have  a  good  chance." 

Seven  days'  quiet  and  then  I  returned  to  play 
Magda  again  at  the  Royalty  Theatre.  The  house 
was  crowded.  I  was  bound  to  struggle  desperately 
against  the  sympathetic  applause  of  the  audience,  or 
I  could  not  have  gone  on.  Some  of  them  wept,  and 
so  did  the  actors.     At  the  end  I  was  exhausted. 

In  my  dressing-room  I  quickly  slipped  into  my 
black  dress — someone  had  persuaded  me  to  buy 
heavy  mourning;  the  skirt  had  a  deep  hem  of  crepe 
— I  did  not  think  of  changing  my  stockings,  which 
were  pale  pink. 

At  the  stage  door,  the  little  dark  passage  leading 
to  the  pavement  was  full  of  people,  chiefly  elderly 
women  dressed  in  black.  As  I  passed  them  they 
whispered,  "Poor  thing!"  I  lifted  my  foot  to  step 
into  the  hansom  cab,  and  I  heard  a  startled  and  hor- 
rified "Oh!"  from  those  standing  nearest  me — my 


202     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

pale  pink  stockings  had  looked  like  bare  legs.     The 
humour  of  it  bit  into  my  heart — I  felt  a  clown. 

We  started  almost  at  once  rehearsing — for  a  series 
of  matinees — The  Fantasticks,  cleverly  adapted  by 
"George  Fleming"  from  Edmond  Rostand's  Les 
Romanesques,  Gerald  du  Maurier  playing  the  lead- 
ing part.  Magda  was  still  in  the  evening  bill. 
Also  we  revived  for  four  matinees,  Pelleas  and  Mel- 
isande,  with  Mr.  Martin  Harvey  playing  his  original 
role. 

My  season  ended  on  July  14th  with  a  matinee  of 
Pelleas  and  Melisande,  and  an  evening  perform- 
ance of  Magda. 

Then  there  was  a  provincial  tour,  returning  to 
the  Royalty  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Daventry — written 
by  Mr.  Frank  Harris  on  a  synopsis  by  Oscar  Wilde — 
both  Mr.  Frederick  Kerr  and  Mr.  du  Maurier  dis- 
tinguished themselves  in  this  play.  Then  matinees 
of  Mr.  Max  Beerbohm's  The  Happy  Hypocrite;  a 
production  of  Mariana,  by  Jose  Echegaray;  a  re- 
vival of  The  Notorious  Mrs.  Ebbsmith;  and  a  re- 
vival of  The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray. 

All  this  work  was  done  in  a  little  over  eighteen 
months  against  tragic  odds,  in  the  vain  hope  of  sav- 
ing the  remaining  £6,000  of  the  "backers"  money, 
but  all  of  it  and  more  had  gone.  Mr.  Bouchier 
Hawksley  explained  the  calamitous  position,  and 
then  he  and  I  with  a  dear  friend  of  mine — Miss 
Melicent  Stone — had  a  long  talk. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     203 

I  would  not  hear  of  bankruptcy.  I  felt  I  must 
be  allowed  to  make  one  more  efifort. 

In  the  end  Mr.  Hawksley  agreed  to  my  plan — to 
go  to  America,  signing  a  document  with  him  to  give 
half  or  three-quarters  of  my  weekly  earnings  towards 
paying  back  my  creditors — it  was  about  3  A.  M.  when 
this  interview  was  over. 

I  had  a  telegram  from  Lord  Grey  next  day;  ^'Con- 
gratulations  on  all  night  sitting." 

An  agreement  was  come  to  with  Messrs.  Liebler 
and  Co.,  for  a  tour  of  twenty-two  weeks  in  the  United 
States,  with  the  repertoire  I  had  played  at  the  Roy- 
alty Theatre  on  these  terms — according  to  notes  I 
have: 

Messrs.  Leibler  would  pay  the  salaries  of  my  com- 
pany and  all  travelling  expenses,  paying  me  £200  a 
week,  and  15  per  cent,  to  £1,000,  20  per  cent,  to 
£2,000,  and  35  per  cent,  on  all  over;  on  the  gross 
weekly  takings. 

It  was  arranged  that  I  should  do  a  short  tour  of 
the  English  provinces  before  sailing.  This  I  did, 
returning  to  the  Royalty  Theatre  to  produce  Beyond 
Human  Power  by  Bjornstjerne  Bjornson — transla- 
ted into  English  by  Miss  Jessie  Muir  for  nine  mat- 
inees. 

The  play  tells  the  story  of  the  bedridden  wife  of  a 
Faith-Healer.  She  cannot  move,  and  for  weeks  she 
has  not  slept. 

The  play  opens  with  the  visit  of  an  American 


204     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

sister-in-law  to  the  sick  woman;  who  describes  her 
husband's  divine  "healing"  gift.  She  tells  how  he 
goes  for  miles  and  miles  across  the  fjords  to  heal  the 
sick,  believing  that  he  "walks  with  God." 

"Why  does  he  not  heal  you  then?"  the  visitor  asks. 
The  woman  answers,  "Because  I  do  not  believe." 
Her  husband  has  told  her  that  if  she  will  only  have 
'faith'  she  will  be  cured. 

He  arranges  to  have  a  service  in  the  church,  where 
he  will  pray  until  she  sleeps.  The  church  bell  will 
continue  ringing  to  let  her  know  that  he  is  praying. 
He  says  their  two  children  must  also  kneel  by  her 
bed  and  pray,  until  she  falls  asleep. 

.  .  .  The  children  come  in  and  kneel  by  her  bed. 
The  church  bell  rings.  Suddenly  there  is  a  tremen- 
dous unearthly  noise;  a  great  avalanche  falls  down 
the  mountain  side,  destroying  everything  in  its  way, 
but  leaving  the  church  untouched. 

The  noise  is  heard  of  people  screaming  and  shout- 
ing and  running  about  in  fear — the  children  rush  to 
the  window  crying  out  what  they  see,  then  back  to  the 
bed  to  comfort  the  poor  bedridden  woman,  who, 
they  think,  is  dumb  with  terror.  The  noise  sub- 
sides, and  as  they  lean  over  the  bed  looking  into  her 
face  the  curtain  comes  down  on  the  words,  "Mother's 
asleep!" 

It  is  a  miracle — God  has  answered  the  prayers. 

In  the  next  act  there  is  a  great  discussion  between 
various  pastors  as  to  the  meaning  of  what  has  hap- 
pened.    The  husband  is  still  praying  in  the  church 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     205 

and  the  bell  is  still  ringing — he  has  been  praying  two 
days  and  two  nights. 

The  neighbours  want  to  see  the  sleeping  woman. 
The  pastor  returns,  the  choir  singing  follow  him  into 
the  room. 

The  bedroom  door  opens,  his  wife  enters  and  walks 
across  the  room  with  her  arms  stretched  out  towards 
him.  He  comes  forward  to  embrace  her,  his  face 
radiant  with  joy,  as  she  drops  down  dead  at  his  feet. 
The  pastor  gives  an  agonised  cry  as  he  says,  "This 
is  not  what  I  meant,  not  this!" 

I  quote  a  few  interesting  letters: — 

"10  Adelphi  Terrace,  W.C. 
"My  dear  Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell, 

"That  was  a  really  great  managerial  achievement. 
In  future,  when  people  ask  me  whether  I  go  to  the 
theatre  I  shall  say,  'To  the  Royalty,  not  to  any 
other.' 

"I  think  the  'Hallelujah  Chorus'  might  be  improved 
by  steeping  in  boiling  water  for  ten  minutes  or  so  before 
the  next  matinee.  And  if  Rachel  must  have  a  scream 
at  the  end,  it  might  be  well  to  give  her,  at  rehearsal, 
something  to  scream  for.  Titheradge  was  so  remark- 
able a  parson  that  you  really  ought  to  play  Candida 
{Candida  is  an  old  play  of  my  own,  with  a  most  parsonic 
parson  in  it  ) ,  for  his  benefit;  he  would  cover  himself  with 
glory  as  Candida's  husband;  but  he  is  wrong  to  gurgle 
like  Othello  cutting  his  throat.  That  scene  gets  far  be- 
yond the  screaming  and  gurgling  kind  of  realism. 
These  physical  obstructions  and  inconveniences  have  no 
business  among  the  spiritual  agonies.     May  I  suggest. 


2o6     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

too,  that  Tithcradge's  determination  to  die  parallel  to 
the  "floats"  with  his  heels  O.P.*  and  his  head  P.,  whilst 
you  occupy  the  corresponding  position  P.  and  O.P.,  rather 
spoils  the  picture?  After  all,  it  is  not  natural  that  he 
should  die  unassisted,  especially  after  gurgling;  and  it 
would  be  a  great  improvement  if  he  would  breath  his 
last  in  the  arms  of  Horatio — say  the  sceptical  parson 
who  wants  the  miracle.  That  would  compose  the  pic- 
ture much  better.  It  is  one  of  the  drawbacks  to  your 
power  of  rousing  people's  sense  of  beauty  that  even 
trifles  jar  on  it  if  they  are  unbecoming. 

"However,  all  that  is  nothing.  The  impression  was 
overwhelming. 

"Yours  enthusiastically, 

"G.  Bernard  Shaw. 

".  .  .  .  I  was  greatly  touched  when  Mrs.  Theodore 
Wright,  who  was  a  friend  of  Karl  Marx,  and  has  been 
in  all  sorts  of  revolutionary  circles  got  so  indignant  at 
the  conduct  of  Pastor  Lang  that  she  clenched  her  fists 
and  glared  at  the  wickedness  of  religion,  instead  of  giv- 
ing you  your  cue — the  'My  dear'  cue.  Forgive  her — 
it  was  a  generous  slip." 

And  in  another  letter  from  him: — 

"Thank  you  for  the  beautiful  photograph;  but  I  should 
have  photographed  you  in  bed,  saying,  'It's  tempting 
Providence.'  That  was  the  finest  passage  in  the  play. 
After  all,  there  are  lots  of  beautiful  people  about;  and 
some  of  them  can,  perhaps,  even  thread  needles  with  their 
toes;  but  they  can't  take  a  filament  of  grey  matter  from 
their  brains  and  thread  it  through  that  most  elusive  of 

*  Opposite  Prompter. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS      207 

eyelet  holes  in  the  top  of  a  dramatist^s  needle.  Besides, 
that  produces  a  new  sort  of  beauty,  compared  to  which 
natural  beauty  is  a  mere  reach-me-down  from  Nature's 
patterns.  Long  ago,  when  everybody  was  maudlin  about 
your  loveliness,  I  snapped  my  fingers — admired  nothing 
but  your  deft  fingers  and  toes.  Now  I  admire  you 
enormously.  You  have  picked  the  work  of  Nature  to 
pieces  and  remade  it  whole  heavens  finer.  It  Is  the 
power  to  do  that  that  is  the  real  gift.   .   .   ." 

"I  wish  you  had  a  theatre  of  your  own;  for  if  the 
Lord  Chamberlain  suspended  you,  I  could  make  a  re- 
volution within  half-an  hour  of  the  announcement. 

"The  enclosed  letter  is  from  one  of  my  Reverend  Non- 
conformist constituents.  He  wrote  to  me  in  great  excite- 
about  Beyond  Human  Power.  I  wrote  back  urging  him 
to  write  to  the  Times  and  to  get  a  lot  of  other  Divines 
to  sign  with  him. 

"Unluckily,  Massingham  took  the  words  of  the  Lord 
out  of  the  Minister's  mouth. 

"Yours  sincerely, 
"G.  Bernard  Shaw." 

"National  Liberal  Club. 
"Dear  Mrs.  Campbell, 

"That  was  simply  glorious  this  afternoon.  It  has  left 
me  exulting.  I  go  home  on  Saturday  morning,  but  will 
write  again  about  this.  .   .   . 

"Gilbert  Murray." 

"...  I  knew  nothing  whatever  of  the  play  before  I 
went,  and  was  taken  by  storm.  ...  I  thought  your 
acting,  if  I  may  say  so,  even  better  than  I  have  seen  it 
before — so   firm   and   full   of  nobility   as   well   as   very 


2o8     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

subtle.  .  .  .  You  must  have  studied  church  congresses 
with  a  minute  care  which  I  should  not  have  expected  in 
you,  to  arrange  those  clergymen  so  beautifully.  I 
though  that  scene  most  excellent  comedy  of  a  very  deli- 
cate kind.   .   .   . 

"But  the  whole  conception  was  so  fine.  I  had  been 
three  times  to  the  Theatre  Franqais  the  week  before,  and 
I  enjoyed  your  Bjornstjerne  Bjornson  quite  infinitely 
more.  .  .  . 

"Gilbert  Murray." 

"17,  Hanover  Terrace, 

"N.W. 
"Dear  Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell, 

"Permit  me  to  congratulate  you  very  warmly  on  your 
wonderfully  delicate  and  spiritual  performance  this  after- 
noon. We  have  come  back  dazed  like  people  who  have 
seen  a  vision.   .   .   . 

"Quite  apart  from  the  transcendent  beauty  of  your 
personal  part  in  the  piece,  you  claim  the  highest  applause 
from  every  serious-minded  person  for  your  courage  in 
presenting  a  poem,  the  interest  of  which  is  so  unusual  and 
so  intellectual.  Just  behind  where  we  sat  the  critic  of 
one  of  the  biggest  newspapers  sat  snuffling  and  wriggling, 
and  I  heard  him  mutter  (just  at  the  most  exquisite 
point  of  your  third  scene),  'Fancy  coming  to  a  thing  like 
this!     It  is  about  as  amusing  as  a  funeral!' 

"Thank  you  again  for  an  immense  pleasure,  in  which 
and  with  kindest  remembrances  my  wife  joins  me. 

"Yours  very  sincerely, 

"Edmund  Gosse." 

The  following  letters  from  my  friend,  Mr.  W.  B. 
Yeats  are  particularly  interesting: — 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     209 

"18  Woburn  Buildings. 
"Dear  Mrs.   Patrick  Campbell, 

".  .  .  Will  you  permit  me  to  thank  you  by  letter  for 
the  performance?  Your  acting  seemed  to  me  to  have 
the  perfect  precision  and  delicacy  and  simplicity  of  every 
art  at  its  best.  It  made  me  feel  the  unity  of  the  arts  in 
a  new  way.  I  said  to  myself,  that  is  exactly  what  I  am. 
trying  to  do  in  writing,  to  express  myself  without  waste, 
without  emphasis.  To  be  impassioned  and  yet  to  have 
a  perfect  self-possession,  to  have  a  precision  so  absolute 
that  the  slightest  inflection  of  voice,  the  slightest  rhythm 
of  sound  or  emotion  plucks  the  heart-strings.  But  do 
you  know  that  you  acted  too  well;  you  made  me  under- 
stand a  defect  in  Bjornson's  play  which  I  had  felt  but 
had  not  understood  when  I  read  it.  Bjornson's  hero 
could  only  have  done  those  seen  or  real  miracles  by  having 
a  religious  genius.  Now  the  very  essence  of  genius,  of 
whatever  kind,  is  precision,  and  that  hero  of  his  has 
no  precision.  He  is  a  mere  zealous  man  with  a  vague 
sentimental  mind — the  kind  of  man  who  is  anxious  about 
the  Housing  of  the  Working  Classes,  but  not  the  kind 
of  man  who  sees  what  Blake  called  'The  Divine  Vision 
and  Fruition.'  I  happen  to  have  in  my  pocket  'The 
Revelation  of  Divine  Love,'  by  the  Lady  Julian,  an  old 
mystical  book;  my  hand  strayed  to  it  all  unconsciously. 
There  was  no  essential  difference  between  that  work  and 
your  acting;  both  were  full  of  fine  distinction,  of  delicate 
logic,  of  that  life  where  passion  and  thought  are  one. 
Both  were  utterly  unlike  Bjornson's  hero. 

"The  actor  played  him  to  the  life;  but  I  was  miserable 
until  he  was  off  the  stage.  He  was  an  unbeliever's  dream 
of  a  believer,  an  atheist's  Christian.  .  .  . 

u 

"W.  B.  Yeats." 


2IO     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

"i8,  Woburn  Buildings. 
".  .  .  .  Yes,  I  agree  with  you  that  Bjornson's  play  is 
a  fine  thing — living,  passionate,  touching  issues  of  life  and 
death.  In  London  the  subjects  which  people  think 
suitable  for  drama  get  fewer  every  day.  Shelley  said 
that  when  a  social  order  was  in  decay,  the  arts  attached 
themselves  to  the  last  things  people  were  interested  in — 
imaginatively  interested  in.  Here  people  look  on  the 
world  with  more  and  more  prosaic  eyes,  as  Shelley  said 
they  did  in  dying  Greece.  There,  as  here,  nothing  kept 
its  beauty  but  irregular  love-making.  He  called  the  po- 
etry that  had  irregular  love  for  subject  and  was  called  im- 
moral, 'The  Footsteps  of  Astrea  departing  from  the 
world.' 

"W.  B.  Yeats/' 


"...  I  have  no  right  to  criticise  the  play,  but  I  must 
say  I  think  the  solemnity  of  it  is  marred  in  the  second 
act  by  a  stupid  introduction  of  the  comic  element  when 
those  parsons  are  met  together,  and  I  would  give  much 
for  that  controversy  or  symposium  upon  the  question  of 
miracles  to  be  re-written  up  to  the  present  standard  of 
thought.  The  remarks  on  both  sides  are  a  hundred 
years  behind  the  age,  but  the  play  as  a  whole  will  do 
good,  and  the  first  act  is  one  of  the  most  impressive 
scenes  I  have  ever  witnessed  on  the  stage.  The  dual 
problem  proposed  is  the  most  momentous  that  can  oc- 
cupy the  mind  of  man: — 

"(i)    What  think  ye  of  Christ? 

"(2)    What  is  answer  to  prayer? 

"  'Oh,  I  didn't  mean  that.'  The  pathos,  the  disap- 
pointment of  it!     And  yet  thus  it  must  be  if  we  believe 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     211 

that  it  is  an  all-loving  and  all-knowing  Father  to  whom 
we  pray. 

"Some  day  I  should  so  like  to  talk  over  this  play  with 
you. 

"With  renewed  thanks  for  giving  me  this  treat. 

"Basil  Wilberforce 
"(Archdeacon  of  Westminster)," 


CHAPTER  XI. 

I  OPENED  in  Chicago  at  the  Opera  House  on 
the  7th  of  January,  1902. 
Again,  as  on  my  "first  appearance  on  any 
stage"  so  many  years  before,  the  audience  seemed 
a  hundred  miles  away.  The  enormous  proscenium 
opening — the  scene  on  the  stage  only  the  few  chairs, 
the  table,  the  bowl  of  goldfish,  the  writing-desk,  the 
couch,  and  the  antimacassars  of  Magda. — 

I  could  not  go  out  to  that  huge  audience,  and  so 
again  I  "gathered"  them  up  to  myself.  "How  did 
you  do  that?"  the  reader  will  say;  it  is  very  difficult 
to  answer. 

I  have  heard  it  called  "hypnotic"  power,  as  when 
an  Indian  throw  a  rope  up  into  the  air  and  climbs  it 
before  your  eyes. 

A  certain  hesitancy,  shaping  of  pauses,  tentative- 
ness,  sudden  precision,  instinctive  rhythmical  move- 
ment, calling  with  my  heart — "Love,  and  listen,  to 
what  I  believe  true  and  beautiful" — how  much  per- 
sonality helps,.  I  do  not  pretend  to  know;  but  I  am 
sure  my  gift  is  no  more  than  that  of  a  robin  redbreast 
when  he  sings.  .  .  . 

I  remember  the  applause  at  the  end  of  the  first 

act  had  an  extraordinary  quality:  it  was  a  roar  that 

212 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     213 

seemed  to  say:  ^'Ah!  this  is  true,  we  are  not  going  to 
be  blufifed" — and  I    felt  I  had  won. 

Nowhere  in  the  world  are  artists  received  with 
more  warmth  and  enthusiasm  than  in  Chicago — that 
city  where  men  fight  against  heat  that  stifles,  and 
snows  that  kill :  the  miles  of  great,  bare,  flat  front  be- 
tween you  and  beautiful  Lake  Michigan:  not  sand 
or  stone,  but  black  mud.  .  .  .Further  along  are  the 
great  palaces,  the  "homes"  of  the  millionaires,  look- 
ing on  to  that  gorgeous  lake  that  seems  to  reach  to 
the  end  of  the  world — sometimes  calm,  sometimes 
with  gigantic  opalesque  waves.  .  .  . 

Before  the  curtain  was  down  on  the  last  act,  I 
knew  I  was  wonderfully  rich  in  friends.  All  that 
applause  could  not  be  for  my  talent:  I  felt  they 
had  taken  a  fancy  to  me! 

And  then  the  good  time  they  gave  me — 

The  balls,  the  dinners,  the  suppers,  the  luncheons, 
the  musical  parties — on  the  same  evening  Pader- 
ewski  and  Kreisler! — the  flowers — roses  as  tall  as 
girls — the  sweets — the  books. 

Mrs  Arthur  Caton,  Mrs.  Spencer  Eddie,  Mrs. 
Franklyn  Macveagh ;  and  many,  many  others.  Their 
gaiety,  their  broad,  liberal  spirit,  their  unstinted  hos- 
pitality, and  their  loyalty  and  frankness — it  was  in- 
toxicating. 

How  long  ago!  I  have  made  six  visits  since,  and 
incidents  of  this  first  visit  may  get  mixed  up  in  my 
mind  with  incidents  of  other  visits — but  one  stands 
distinct. 


214     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

I  remember  Mrs.  Macveagh  saying  at  a  luncheon 
party — where  only  ladies  were  present — that  the  most 
immoral  woman  is  no  worse  than  the  most  moral 
man.  I  wanted  dreadfully  to  get  up  and  make  a 
speech,  but  I  was  young  and  very  uncertain  upon 
questions  of  life  and  morals. 

I  had  been  brought  up  to  believe  that  woman  is 
the  Mother  of  Goodness,  so  that  immorality  in  a 
woman  is  the  worst  that  could  happen. 

But  I  said  nothing  of  this  at  that  luncheon  party. 
I  enjoyed  the  novelty,  the  fun,  and  the  amusing  talk, 
and  the  pretty  clothes. 

The  following  letter  from  Mr.  Bertram,  my  busi- 
ness man  (whom  I  had  taken  on  from  the  Prince  of 
Wales  Theatre  to  the  Royalty  Theatre,  and  had  now 
brought  to  America),  to  my  uncle,  gives  an  idea  of 
the  financial  success  of  this  American  tour: 

"C|o  Lieblers  and  Co.,  Knickerbocker  Theatre  Buildings, 

"New  York  City, 
"21st  Jan.,  1902. 
"Dear  Mr.  Tanner, 

"In  reply  to  your  letter  of  the  loth  Inst.,  I  am  de- 
lighted to  say  that  Mrs.  Campbell  is  both  an  artistic 
and  financial  success;  if  I  tried  to  explain  how  great 
her  success  was,  I  am  afraid  you  would  think  I  was  ex- 
aggerating. We  are  playing  in  a  small  theatre  to  the 
same  prices  as  charged  only  by  Sir  Henry  Irving  and 
Sarah  Bernhardt,  and  you  know  the  amount  of  scenery 
and  the  large  company  they  travel;  in  our  case  there 
is  only   Mrs.   Campbell.     Why,   in  Chicago  all  records 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     215 

were  beaten.  Mrs.  Campbell  holds  the  record  house, 
the  record  matinee,  the  record  week,  and  the  record  for 
the  city,  for  no  star  has  played  to  so  much  money  in  two 
weeks  as  she  did;  the  gross  receipts  for  the  two  weeks 
were  nearly  £7,000. 

"I  am  so  pleased  she  is  playing  her  repertoire,  for 
one  critic  may  like  her  Paula  and  Magda  and  run 
down  her  Clara  Sang,  and  another  critic  praise  her 
Clara  Sang  and  not  like  "her  Paula  and  Magda. 
Another  thing  that  has  to  be  considered  is,  we  are  not 
playing  with  the  Syndicate,  and  they  try  to  influence  the 
press  against  her,  but  it  does  not  matter,  the  public 
buy  up  the  seats,  and  at  every  performance  the  house 
is  sold  out  and  the  spectators  obtain  advanced  prices  on 
the  side  walk.  Only  last  night  I  saw  people  buying 
single  seats  at  $5  (£1)  that  we  had  charged  $3  (12s.) 
for. 

"We  play  Pelleas  and  Melisande  Tuesday  and 
Thursday  next  week  at  a  larger  theatre  for  two  mat- 
inees only,  and  the  advance  sale  is  enormous.  In  three 
weeks  Mrs.  Campbell  has  sent  over  £2,000  to  Mr. 
Hawksley.  At  this  rate  we  shall  very  soon  have  cleared 
off  all  the  debts  of  her  syndicate,  and  she  will  have  money 
of  her  own  to  commence  work  again. 

"I  have  sent  you  to-day  some  more  cuttings,  both  good 
and  bad,  but  the  press  here  is  so  different  to  England, 
no  one  takes  any  notice  of  it. 

"Yours  faithfully, 
"A.  Bertram." 

On  our  arrival  in  New  York — I  took  to  America 
my  faithful  Julia,*  my  little  griffon,  and  a  maid — 

*  Dear  Julia  was  my  dresser  for  twenty  years.     She  came  to  me  first 
as  maid  to  my   children. 


2i6     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

two  or  three  hotels  refused  to  take  my  dog.     At  last 
we  settled  at  the  Park  Avenue  Hotel. 
When  I  arrived  I  found  twelve  men  with  notebooks 
waiting    for    me    in    the    reception-room — "Inter- 
viewers." 

The  fool  I  felt  was  beyond  words  to  describe — ■ 
and  I  am  afraid  I  said  something  like  this:  "How 
perfectly  dreadful,  why  do  you  do  it?  Is  it  for 
your  living?     It  seems  to  me  so  insulting." 

But  they  wrote  kindly  of  me,  and  I  grew  to  like 
their  sharp-cut  features  and  intelligent  faces  and 
their  eager  outlook  for  something  to  write  about — 
in  their  parlance,  "a  new  viewpoint" — "an  original 
stunt." 

As  everyone  knows.  New  York  is  built  upon  a 
rock.  During  this  visit.of  mine  they  were  construct- 
ing the  subway,  and  every  inch  of  the  tunnel  had  to 
be  blasted  with  dynamite. 

I  was  playing  eight  and  nine  performances  a  week 
of  a  repertory  of  six  plays,  all  tragic,  emotional 
parts. 

The  din  of  New  York — the  rush,  the  tall  build- 
ings, and  the  strange  coloured  people;  Italians,  Rus- 
sians, Chinese — all  sorts  everywhere — the  noise  of 
the  elevators,  the  nasal  twang — black  boys,  bell  boys, 
and  the  noise  of  the  street  cars — I  do  not  want  to  be 
unkind,  but  to  me  it  was  demoniacal. 

Then  there  were  all  my  trunks — those  that  couldn't 
fit  in  the  room  were  in  the  passage  outside — and  never 
a  "cup  of  English  tea"  for  my  maids — all  this,  to 


ox  HER  FIRST  AMERICAN  TOUR 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     217 

the  accompaniment  of  underground  explosions.  .  .  . 

I  tried  to  bear  it,  but  some  unknown  voice  whis- 
pered in  my  ear  "get  out  of  this  hotel."  After  a 
week  I  said  to  Julia:  "Pack  up,  I  must  go."  She 
looked  more  than  miserable — demented — she  thought 
of  the  three  hotels  that  had  refused  to  take  me  be- 
cause of  "Pinkie." 

She  packed  up  and  we  went — twenty-four  hours 
afterwards  the  hotel  was  blown  to  smithereens — 
comic  pictures  in  the  papers  of  headless  bodies  run- 
ning searching  for  their  heads,  and  heads  with  eyes 
searching  for  the  rest  of  their  bodies;  noses  and  ears 
and  fingers  scattered  about  ...  to  help  cheer  the 
public  up,  I  suppose,  who  had  shares  in  the  enter- 
prise. 

In  the  next  hotel — the  Majestic,  I  believe — there 
was  sometimes  a  shuffling  outside  my  bedroom  door. 

My  only  companion  was  my  little  griffon,  and  to 
her  I  would  talk  my  special  dog  language.  The  fol- 
lowing is  what  appeared  in  the  newspapers: 

"Those  who  have  listened  outside  the  great  actress's 
bedroom  door  will  have  heard  the  words  spoken  to  her 
by  her  deceased  husband  on  the  phonograph  she  carries 
with  her  always.  She  turns  on  the  phonograph  every 
night  before  she  goes  to  sleep." 

"New  York. 
"Darling  Uncle, 

"...  I  work,  work,  work,  all  the  time — you  get  the 
papers,  and  from  them  you  will  know  what  it  is  like. 


2i8     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

Mr.  Hawksley  makes  out  my  debts  at  nearly  £12,000; 
this  includes  all  the  money  I  want  to  repay. 

"Expenses  are  so  heavy  here  it  means  my  coming  home 
without  a  farthing,  however  hard  I  work.   .   .   . 

"The  audiences  are  not  so  large  now;  it  is  so  warm 
and  I  believe  I  am  in  the  wrong  theatre. 

"I  have  to  play  Pelleas  and  Mclisande  in  the  theatre 
next  door,  as  the  orchestra  in  our  theatre  only  holds 
seven  performers  and  is  above  the  proscenium. 

"Chicago  was  like  a  wonderful  nightmare.  Five 
plays  in  a  fortnight,  and  nine  performances  a  week,  and 
speeches,  and  all  the  parties — but,  however  great  the 
success,  the  money  must  go  back  to  my  creditors,  which 
is,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  depressing.  £500  is  added  for 
A.  G. 

"Perhaps  you  will  see  Mr.  Hawksley  and  suggest  that 
if  I  pay  £8,000  now  it  will  be  sufficient,  and  others  must 
wait. 

"I  am  afraid  I  won't  get  a  new  play  on,  if  the  ones 
I  am  doing  continue  to  draw  good  audiences. 

"My  maid  W.  has  had  a  bilious  attack  ever  since 
she  left  England.     She  wears  a  long  train!   .   .  . 

"The  noise  in  front  of  my  hotel,  in  fact  all  round,  is 
awful.  They  are  building  an  underground  railway. 
There  are  the  noises  of  the  explosions,  and  the  noises  of 
iron  girders  being  lowered  all  night  long.  Fm  afraid 
I  will  have  to  move. 

"The  two  nights  in  the  train  from  Chicago  upset 
me.     I  was  very  sick  and  jumpy.   .   .   . 

"I  am  writing  in  the  night,  after  two  performances 
and  a  rehearsal. 

"Dear  letters  from  Stella — short  ones  from  Beo — 
he's  young  to  be  away  so  long.   .   .   . 

"Nine    performances    last    week.      I    send    you    my 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS      219 

speech,  which  was  a  great  success,  given  in  my  night- 
gown, after  Beyond  Human  Power.  I  have  been 
ill,  my  voice  and  appetite  and  my  sleep  went  for  days, 
and  have  left  me  rather  weak. 

"Mrs.  Clarence  Mackay  sent  round  all  sorts  of  nice 
things;  I  am  better,  really  quite  well,  only  rather  hoarse. 
I  have  played  every  performance;  I  was  so  afraid  I 
would  have  to  give  up. 

"Isn't  the  enclosed  cutting  lovely?  .   .   . 

"Beatrice." 

The  New  York  Evening  Journal, 

February  4th,  1902. 

"The  Lady  and  the  Pup. 

"Here  to  the  left  is  a  very  interesting  photograph. 
The  writer  does  not  know  the  lady  of  the  fine,  calm, 
powerful  face.  He  does  not  even  know  the  dog,  the 
strange,  inbred  wild  little  creature. 

"This  picture  is  printed  to  call  attention  to  the  folly 
which  women  show  in  regard  to  dogs. 

"The  picture  represents  a  feature  of  dog  life  of  an 
ethical  rather  than  a  practical  kind. 

"If  the  lady  in  the  picture — the  famous  and  able 
actress,  Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell — had  this  picture  taken 
with  a  scientific  view,  it  was  all  right.  If  she  meant  to 
illustrate  the  marvels  of  evolution  and  natural  selection 
by  contrasting  the  wild,  crazy,  big-eyed  snub-nosed  face 
of  the  little  dog  with  her  own  high  development,  morally 
and  mentally,  her  idea  was  a  good  one. 

"But  if  she  meant  to  indicate  in  this  photograph,  af- 
fection for  the  animal,  and  her  opinion  of  his  right  place 
in  the  universe,  we  are  obliged  to  disagree  with  and  to 
criticise  her. 


220     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

"It  is  all  very  well  to  repeat  what  one  woman  said: 
'The  more  I  see  of  men,  the  more  I  think  of  dogs.' 

"The  dog's  place  is  on  the  floor,  and  not  in  a  photo- 
graph next  to  a  woman's  cheek. 

"There  are  in  man  and  woman  whatever  qualities  we 
seek  for,  and  the  human  being  that  cannot  find  in  one 
of  his  own  kind  the  highest  companionship,  the  fullest 
friendship,  and  affection,  is  curiously  lacking. 

"There  may  be  exceptions.  This  picture  doubtless  por- 
trays one  of  them.  But  in  general  we  venture  to  say 
that  the  woman  who  likes  a  dog  better  than  a  child  or  a 
man,  ought  not  to  have  a  child  or  a  husband. 

"If  the  lady  of  this  picture  will  pick  up  in  the  streets 
the  poorest  little  child,  and  have  her  photograph  taken 
with  that  child's  face  in  the  place  of  the  dog's  face,  we 
think  that  she  will  be  delighted  with  the  result.  We 
shall  be  very  glad  to  print  such  a  picture  in  this  same 
place,  and  along  side  of  it  Mrs.  Campbell's  views  on  the- 
relative  satisfactoriness  of  pups  and  human  chil- 
dren." 

There  is  a  peculiar  gaiety  about  American  women, 
not  usual  in  Englishwomen.  It  may  be  explained  by 
the  electricity  in  the  air,  or  the  difference  in  the 
clock — it  is  day  here  when  it  is  night  there — 

At  a  party  everyone  is  buoyant.  It  would  be 
infinitely  ill-mannered  to  be  morose,  critical,  silent, 
self-absorbed,  or  to  appear  "out  of  it."  You  are 
there  to  be  happy,  and  to  make  others  happy. 

It  seems  noisy  and  fatiguing  at  first,  but  it  has  its 
magnetic  warmth  and  charm.  There  is  nothing  of 
that  funny  cliquishness  you  find  so  often  in  English 
Society. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     221 

And  then  how  they  dance — and  how  well  they 
dress! 

Mrs.  Dana  Gibson's  silver  legs  and  her  little  feet — 
this  lady  always  wore  silver  stockings — how  they 
twinkled  as  she  tangoed  or  cake-walked — whatever 
the  fashionable  dance  was  then.  Her  irresistible  fun 
too;  the  gaiety  of  her  passion  when  she  sang  French 
love  songs;  her  gravity  when  she  imitated  an  Eng- 
lishwoman and  the  ''British  accent." 

And  the  kindness  of  American  men! — people 
would  have  me  think  American  women  have  taught 
them  that;  I  do  not  believe  it. 

The  care  and  the  cherishing  of  the  white  woman 
belongs  to  early  days,  and  the  instinct  has  lasted 
through. 

I  must  not  write  ail  the  admiration  I  have  for  the 
American  Poppa;  it  might  be  thought  I  was  hard 
on  the  American  mother  and  daughter.  .  .  . 

I  remember  at  a  luncheon  party  a  distinguished 
American,  sitting  next  to  me,  suddenly  looked  me 
straight  in  the  eye  and  said:  "Some  man  has  made 
you  unhappy;  it  is  an  insult  to  your  sex  to  allow  it, 
and  it  shows  a  lack  of  sense  of  humour."  I  an- 
swered :  "Do  you  know  why  God  withheld  the  sense 
of  humour  from  women?"  He  said  he  could  not  im- 
agine. I  replied  winningly:  "That  we  may  love 
you,  instead  of  laughing  at  you."  I  made  the  re- 
mark— it  was  not  original,  but  I  have  the  credit  for 
it — because  I  disliked  what  I  thought  his  impertin- 
ent curiosity;  he  pretended  to  think  I  was  flirting 


222     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

with  him,  and  shouted  "Fire!     Fire!     Fire!"  and 
turned  the  laugh  against  me. 

*1^  IV  *f*  'I* 

To-day  a  lady  who  has  been  in  America  three  or 
four  months  announces  that  the  American  man  makes 
the  "best  lover."     It  is  a  comic  remark. 

Someone  has  said:  "As  a  man  is,  so  he  loves." 
The  dishonourable  man  dishonourably;  the  coarse 
man  coarsely;  and  so  on.  .  .  . 

A  friend  of  mine  thinks:  "The  secret  of  married 
happiness  lies  in  politeness";  if  so,  1  suppose  in 
Europe  the  palm  should  be  given  to  the  Frenchman; 
in  Asia  to  the  Chinaman.  .  .  . 

I  insist  that  I  have  found  the  manners  of  Ameri- 
can men  more  kindly;  of  Frenchmen  more  courteous; 
of  Englishmen  more  sincere;  of  Irishmen — God  de- 
fend us!  .  .  . 

By  February  5th  I  find  in  another  letter  to  my 
uncle  that  I  had  sent  £3,442  towards  my  liabilities. 

By  the  end  of  the  tour,  owing  to  the  great  heat, 
the  business  was  not  so  good,  but  I  paid  back  in  all, 
just  on  £7,000  at  the  end  of  the  tv^enty-two  weeks. 

My  next  tour  in  America  was  in  September  of  the 
same  year,  and  I  continued  paying  up ;  so  that  people 
who  say  I  have  never  saved  money — it  is  true  I  have 
not  the  accepted  "right  sense"  of  the  value  of  money 
— must  remember  this  effort  of  mine. 

In  those  days  in  New  York  Mr.  Norman  Hap- 
good  was  the  dramatic  critic  upon  whom  the  actors' 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     223 

minds  centered;  and  his  flattering  notice  of  my  work 
is  interesting.* 

There  is  a  very  fearsome  person  in  America  called 
the  "Press  agent."  It  is  his  business  to  see  that  the 
newspapers  talk  about  the  "star."     His  power  of  in- 

*  Drama  of  the  Month. 

"For  a  long  time  nothing  in  the  theatrical  world  has  done  so  much 
good   in  New  York  as  the   visit  of  Mrs.   Patrick  Campbell.  .  .  . 

"She  was  in  the  city  three  weeks,  her  plays  received  almost  the  united 
censure  of  a  Press  that  thinks  Bjornson  and  Maeterlinck  ridiculous, 
Sudermann  dull  and  The  Notorious  Mrs.  Ebbsmitli,  immoral. 

"Nevertheless,  it  took  but  a  few  days  for  the  idea  to  spread  among 
people  who  care,  that  Mrs.  Campbell  was  something  that  must  not  be 
missed,  and  there  were  many  who  were  turned  away  from  the  theatre 
every  night.  .  .  . 

"Some  of  them  liked  Bjornson  best,  some  Maeterlinck,  some  Pinero, 
but  all  cared.  They  were  in  the  presence  of  an  art  which  would  make 
a  diiference  in  their  feelings  and  in  their  ideas.  Speaking  to  them 
publicly  after  their  enthusiastic  reception  of  Bjornson's  intense  spiritual 
drama,  Beyond  Human  Poiver,  on  her  last  night,  Mrs.  Campbell  said: 
'I  see  no  reason  why  the  drama  should  not  be  selected  for  its  beauty 
and  truth,  its  possession  of  those  qualities  which  give  worth  to  other 
aspects  of  life.'  It  is  not  only  for  excitement  that  we  all  go  to  the 
theatre,  not  to  be  carried  off  our  feet  by  sheer  power.  It  is  to  have 
three  hours  in  which  the  mind  and  taste  are  encouraged,  pleased,  and 
corrected. 

"Mrs.  Campbell  prefers  omission  to  fabrication.  Such  simplification 
might  lead  to  barrenness,  but  the  more  I  see  it  in  this  actress,  the  more 
it  appears  in  the  light  of  harmony  and  purity,  for  the  methods  which 
she  does  use  are  sufficient  to  paint  widely  different  women  with  lasting 
solidity.  America  has  not  seen  Mrs.  Campbell  try  roles  in  which  much 
power  is  needed,  or  unclouded  joy.  Her  most  distinguished  work 
has  been  deep,  clear,  pure  and  in  the  minor  key,  yet  the  future  may 
shows  other  truths,  for  nothing  in  Mariana,  Magda,  The  Second  Mrs. 
Tanqueray,  or  The  Notorious  Mrs.  Elbsmith  could  prepare  one 
for  the  fairy  innocence  of  "Melisande,  or  the  profound  devotion  of  the 
pastor's  wife  in  Beyond  Human  Poiver 

"My  own  opinions  have  been  changed  in  several  ways  and  always  in 
favour  of  the  author,  a  characteristic  result  of  Mrs.  Campbell's 
thoroughness    of    interpretation " 


224     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

vention,  contrivance,  and  ingenuity  is  beyond  con- 
ception to  the  normal  mind. 

One  night  at  the  theatre,  just  before  I  was  going 
on  the  stage  in  Beyond  Human  Power,  the  press 
agent  (this  particular  man  was  a  German  and  his 
name  was  ''Worms!")  put  his  head  in  my  dressing- 
room  door  and  said:  "If  anyone  says  'tanbark,'  you 
know  nothing."  I  called  him  back  and  asked  him 
what  "tanbark"  was.  He  looked  delighted  and  an- 
swered:  "I  guess  you'd  better  not  know." 

That  night  the  noise  outside  the  theatre  ceased. 
The  street  cars  have  one  kind  of  bell  that  jangles 
when  they  start,  and  another  when  they  stop;  and 
I  think  there  were  three  sets  of  tram  rails  outside 
this  theatre,  but  on  this  particular  evening  all  was 
silent. 

The  next  morning  the  mystery  of  ''tanbark" 
was  explained  in  the  following  article  in  the  news- 
paper: 

"Tanbark 

"Three  car  loads  of  Tanbark  were  dumped  in  front 
of  the  Theatre  Republic  on  West  Forty-second  Street, 
just  off  Broadway,  this  morning. 

"An  army  of  'White  Wings'*  were  soon  busy  spread- 
ing It  In  even  layers  over  the  granite-blocked  pavement. 

*  The   name   of   street   cleaner   and   sweeper,   who   wear   white   linen 
coats. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     225 

"As  the  street  cars  approached,  the  motor  men  jammed 
down  the  brakes  and  slowed  up,  and  refrained  from 
ringing  the  gongs. 

"The  ill-mannered  little  boys  who  eke  out  an  exis- 
tence crying  'Wuxtra  !'  'Wuxtra  !'  were  gagged. 

"The  Italian  organ-grinders  were  warned  not  to  go 
further  north  than  'West  Twenty-ninth  Street.'  The 
cries  of  babies  on  the  block  were  stifled  with  paregoric. 

"Even  the  detectives  from  the  Tenderloin  Police  Sta- 
tion wore  gum  shoes. 

"The  patrol  men  conversed  in  whispers. 

"The  bar-keepers  over  at  the  Metropole  and  Ross- 
more  Cafe's  shook  up  the  cocktails  and  gin  fizzes  with 
muffled  ice. 

"All  was  still.     All  was  silent. 

"The  man  from  Sullivan  County,  who  came  down  to 
town  in  a  straw  hat  and  a  fur-trimmed  duster,  asked  if 
the  Mayor  was  dead. 

"The  peanut  vendor  at  the  corner,  who  had  been  cau- 
tioned to  plug  up  the  whistle  of  his  roaster,  or  suffer 
banishment  to  'Little  Italy,'  leaned  over  the  kerbstone 
and  whispered  gently  in  the  off  ear  of  the  man  from 
Sullivan  County,  that  Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell,  the  fa- 
mous English  actress,  was  going  to  play  Beyond  Human 
Power  to-night  at  the  Theatre  Republic,  and  it  was  neces- 
sary that  she  had  absolute  quiet. 

"So  it  was  that  the  streets  were  tanbarked,  and  va- 
rious warnings  were  issued  to  various  employees  of  the 
city  and  corporation,  that  quiet  must  be  the  order  of 
day  and  night. 

"And,  'Pinkey  Pankey  Poo'  was  as  happy  as  ever  a 
genteel  doggy  could  be. 

"It  all  began  from  a  request  from  Mrs.  Campbell's 
manager  to  President  Cantor,  of  the  Borough  of  Man- 


226     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

hattan,  that  the  city  spread  tanbark  in  front  of  the  thea- 
tre. The  manager  explained  there  was  so  much  noise 
because  of  the  rumbling  of  wagon  wheels  and  other 
vehicles  that  the  beauties  of  the  actress's  acting  were 
partly  lost  upon  the  audience. 

"The  manager  was  referred  to  Doctor  John  McGaw 
Woodbury,  Superintendent  of  Street  Cleaning.  Doc- 
tor Woodbury  was  out,  and  the  plan  unfolded  to  his 
assistant.  Captain  Gibson.  It  sounded  real  reasonable 
to  the  Captain  and  he  said:  'AH  right,  the  tanbark  goes 
down.' 

"Doctor  Woodbury  was  back  in  his  office  this  morn- 
ing. 

"  'How  about  that  tanbark?'  asked  an  Evening 
World  reporter. 

"  'What  tanbark?'  asked  the  doctor. 

"  'In  front  of  the  Theatre  Republic' 

"  'I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about,'  said  the 
doctor. 

"Then  the  secretary  explained  matters.  'Did  Gib- 
son give  permission  to  the  theatre  to  spread  the  tan- 
bark?' the  doctor  queried. 

"  'He  did,'  said  the  secretary. 

"  'Ah!'  said  the  doctor,  'I  pass  the  whole  matter  up 
to  the  Commissioner  of  Public  Works.  There  is  where 
it  should  have  gone  first.  My  business  is  to  clean  the 
streets,  not  litter  them.' 

"George  Livingstone,  Commissioner  of  Public  Works, 
listened  patiently. 

"  'If  the  Street  Department  has  littered  up  the  streets, 
why,  it  will  have  to  clean  them  up  again,'  said  the  Com- 


missioner 


I  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.     I  don't  just  see  why 
the  whole  town  should  sleep  while  Mrs.  Campbell  acts. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     227 

We  might  just  as  well  put  tanbark  in  front  of  the  other 
theatres.  If  Mrs.  Campbell  is  looking  for  quiet,  why 
doesn't  she  wait  until  she  gets  to  Philadelphia?' 

"  'If  I  find  the  tanbark  around  the  theatre  an  obstruc- 
tion in  the  street,  I  shall  order  the  Superintendent  of 
Encumbrances  to  remove  it,'  said  President  Cantor. 

"Mr.  Cantor  does  not  actually  say  he  will  order  the 
tanbark  to  be  removed,  but  he  intimates  that  such  a 
step  may  be  taken. 

"  'Captain  Gibson  had  the  right  to  grant  such  a  re- 
quest, but  I  do  not  propose  to  get  into  any  fight  over  the 
matter,  but  the  tanbark  may  be  scattered  all  over  the 
adjacent  blocks  and  become  a  nuisance.' 

"But  Mrs.  Campbell's  manager  did  not  rest  content 
with  getting  the  tanbark.  He  made  a  request  to  the 
Metropolitan  Street  Car  Company,  to  instruct  their  mo- 
tor men  to  abstain  from  jangling  the  gongs,  and  to  slow 
up  when  the  cars  on  the  cross  town  lines  pass  the  theatre. 
This  was  granted. 

"Then  the  manager  requested  that  Fire  Chief  Croker 
order  his  firemen  to  muffle  the  bells  of  the  fire  engine 
if  they  should  be  called  upon  to  run  by  the  theatre.  The 
chief  said  he  would  have  to  refer  the  matter  to  the  Fire 
Commissioners,  and  would  get  a  decision  from  them. 

"Noting  the  success  of  Mrs.  Campbell  to  obtain 
quiet,  the  other  actresses  in  the  city  began  to  flood  the 
street-cleaning  department  with  letters  asking  for  similar 
favors.     These  letters  just  began  to  come  in  at  noon. 

"Among  them  were  these  epistles: 

"  'Dear  Doctor, 

"  'I  know  you  are  a  real  nice  man,  and  are  always 
willing  to  help  on  a  poor  girl.  The  push-cart  man  makes 
•so  much  noise  in  front  of  the  Bijou  Theatre  that  I  can- 


228     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

not  hear  my  own  jokes,  and  am  apt  to  spring  a  chestnut 
on  the  public.  Please  send  seven  cars  of  tanbark  to 
me  by  return  mail. 

"  'Yours  for  health, 

"  'May  Irvine.' 

"  'Doctor  Woodbury, 

"  'I  think  it  awful  mean  that  Mrs.  Campbell  is  getting 
all  the  tanbark.  Won't  you  please  send  me  lo  or  15 
cents  worth?     I  am  very  fond  of  rest  myself. 

"  'Yours  truly, 

'"Anna  Held.' 
"  'Dear,  dear  Doctor  Woodbury, 
"  'Oh !  I  should  so  love  to  have  some  genuine  tan- 
bark. I  haven't  seen  any  since  I  played  in  the  back 
counties  of  Michigan,  when  they  used  to  put  it  on  the 
floor  of  the  Town  Hall,  so  that  you  couldn't  hear  the 
lumber  men  when  they  came  in. 

"  'Yours  hopefully, 

"  'Virginia  Harned.' 

"  'Dear  Doctor, 

"  'I  always  did  like  tanbark,  except  I  hear  it  makes  the 
skin  tough.  If  you  can  send  me  four  or  five  carloads 
c.o.d.  I  shall  be  so  grateful. 

"  'Yours  respectfully, 

"  'Lillian  Russell.' 
"  'Dear  Doctor, 

"  'We  do  want  a  lot  of  tanbark  so  that  we  cannot  hear 
the  loud  suits  of  clothes  of  the  wicked  bald-headed  men 
who  sit  in  the  front  row  at  the  "New  York.'' 

"  Yours, 
"  'A  Bunch  of  Florida  Girls.'  " 

There  are  some  actors  and  actresses  in  America 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     229 

who  say  that  my  success  was  entirely  due  to  "tan- 
bark." 

At  one  of  the  performances  of  Beyond  Human 
Power  a  man  asked  for  his  dollar  back,  saying  it 
was  a  "bum  show."* 

When  we  were  playing  in  St.  Louis — it  was  over 
100  in  the  shade,  and  not  a  breath  of  air — I  arrived 
at  my  hotel  exhausted.  I  lay  down  and  shut  my 
eyes.  Something  made  me  open  them.  On  the 
wall  to  my  right  was  this: — 


to  my  left,  two  of  these,  on  my  bed  three,  and  on  the 
ceiling  six — at  least,  so  it  seemed  to  me.  I  jumped 
up,  rang  the  telephone,  and  called  down:  "Send 
some  people  to  room  174  immediately."  A  bell 
boy  came. 

I  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room  trem- 
bling, with  Pinkie  in  my  arms.  I  said  "Look!" 
pointing  wildly  about  me.  He  grinned,  as  only  a 
coloured  bell  boy  can,  and  said :  "Why  dat's  a  'stink 
bug.'  "  "Stink  bug!"  I  shouted.  "There  are  hun- 
dreds all  over  the  room."     He  continued  smiling, 

*"Bum"  is  the  American  for  "dud." 


230     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

and  said:  "I  guess  der  are."  I  screamed  "Kill 
them!"  He  answered:  "Oh,  no,  Ma'am!  dem  smell 
bad  if  dem  killed." 

I  do  not  remember  what  happened  next. 

In  September,  1902,  I  was  again  in  America,  and 
opened  at  the  Garden  Theatre  under  the  management 
of  the  late  Charles  Frohman  in  Aunt  Jeannie,  by  E. 
F.  Benson  ("Dodo").  It  was  a  play  full  of  charm 
and  elegance,  and  received  some  splendid  reviews, 
but  I  fancy  it  was  a  little  trifling,  after  my  serious 
repertory,  in  the  early  part  of  the  year.  Mr.  Froh- 
man kept  this  play  on  only  a  few  weeks,  and  I  started 
almost  immediately  rehearsing  Sudermann's  Es  Lebe 
Des  Leben,  translated  by  Miss  Edith  Wharton — 
The  Joy  of  Living. 

This  play  was  a  great  success,  and,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  a  few  special  performances  of  The  Sec- 
ond Mrs.  Tanqueray  and  Magda,  ran  to  the  end  of 
my  engagement. 

When  I  produced  it  on  my  return  to  England  at  the 
New  Theatre,  it  was  a  complete  failure.  It  had  al- 
ready been  played  excellently  in  London  by  a  Ger- 
man Company,  but  had  been  condemned  by  the 
English  critics.     I  had  hoped  for  the  impossible. 

Charles  Frohman  and  I  shared  the  expense  of  the 
production  in  America,  which  was  in  every  way 
splendid.  I  am  ashamed  to  say  I  remember  candle- 
sticks costing  £12! 

Mr.  Frohman  quarrelled  with  me  over  rehearsals. 


TOURING    THE     UNITED     STATES     UNDER     THE    DIRECTION     OF 

LIEBLER  AND     COMPANY 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     231 

It  was  an  intensely  difficult  play  to  rehearse. 
Beata  was  the  emotional  woman  who  does  not  weep : 
and  I  fancy  he  thought  my  reserve,  and  constraint, 
would  be  dull  and  ineffective.  I  remember  he 
wanted  to  drop  the  curtain  at  the  end  of  the 
scene— when  with  great  dignity,  she  walks  out  of 
the  room  without  noticing  a  small  gilt  chair  in  front 
of  her,  almost  falling — as  the  chair  topples  over — 
cutting  out  the  scene  which  followed.  I  would  not 
hear  of  it;  so  Frohman  would  'have  nothing  more 
to  do  with  the  production,  and  I  became  solely  re- 
sponsible. 

But  for  the  aid  of  Prince  Hugo  von  Hohenlohe, 
who  happened  to  be  in  New  York  at  the  time  and 
gave  me  some  help  in  the  details  of  German  Court 
etiquette — and  the  late  Mr.  Conried,*  who  attended 
three  rehearsals,  giving  me  the  most  brilliant  assis- 
tance; I  could  never  have  got  through  the  produc- 
tion of  this  five-act  play  in  two  weeks — Sudermann, 
too,  sent  me  a  very  complete  prompt  book. 

These  rehearsals,  with  eight  performances  a  week 
of  Aunt  Jeannie  were  a  tremendous  work.  In  the 
end  the  production  had  to  be  put  off  for  two  days — 
I  was  suddenly  taken  ill  and  had  to  lie  in  bed  in  the 

*The  late  Heinrich  Conried  was  at  that  time  manager  of  the  Irving 
Theatre  in  New  York.  He  enjoyed  the  reputation  of  being  the  most 
accomplished  stage  manager  and  director  of  modern  plays  in  the 
world.  Mr.  Conried  gave  as  a  compliment  to  me,  a  professional  mat- 
inee at  the  Irving  Theatre,  of  acts  from  four  different  plays,  including 
Beyond  Human  Power.  All  the  actors  appeared  to  me  to  play  equally 
brilliantly.  He  sent  me  a  gold  and  silver  laurel  wreath  and  said:  "If 
you  ever  act  with  a  leading  man  who  is  a  genius,  you  will  reach  the 
heavens." 


232     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

dark  for  forty-eight  hours.  The  first  night  went 
brilliantly,  and  the  papers  thought  it  the  best  work  I 
had  done. 

The  action  of  this  play  takes  place  among  the 
higher  classes  in'Germany,  and  the  theme  of  the  play 
is  that  social  sin  reveals  itself,  and  cannot  go  un- 
punished. Fifteen  years  before  the  play  begins 
"Countess  Beata"  has  been  in  love  with  Richard, 
her  husband's  friend,  but  out  of  consideration  for 
family  ties  their  liaison  has  been  at  an  end  for  twelve 
years.  The  spirit  of  love  still  exists  between  them, 
most  deeply  upon  Beata's  side,  upon  whom  the  long 
strain  of  suppressed  emotion  has  developed  heart 
disease. 

In  a  most  touching  scene,  Beata  says,  speaking 
to  Richard:  "We've  grown  old,  you  and  I,  there 
is  a  layer  of  ashes  on  our  hearts,  a  layer  of  conven- 
tionality and  good  behaviour,  and  weariness,  and 
disappointment, — who  knows  what  we  were  like  be- 
fore the  fire  went  out?  Not  a  trace  is  left  to  tell — 
not  so  much  as  a  riband,  or  a  flower.  The  words 
are  forgotten,  the  letters  are  destroyed,  the  emotions 
have  faded.  Here  we  sit,  like  two  ghosts  on  our 
own  graves." 

Through  Beata's  influence  and  her  husband's; 
Richard's  political  advancement  is  secured,  and 
Michael  (her  husband)  resigns  his  seat  in  the  Reich- 
stag in  favour  of  Richard. 

But  old  love-letters  have  fallen  into  the  hands  of 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     233 

a  former  secretary — a  Socialistic  agitator — and  he 
uses  them  as  a  weapon  of  political  attack. 

Michael  hears  of  the  scandal.  To  preserve  the 
happiness  of  his  daughter — who  is  in  love  and  en- 
gaged to  Richard's  son — and  to  preserve  the  honour 
of  the  family,  a  council  is  held. 

BeatA:  You  have  questioned  me,  Michael,  let  me  ques- 
tion you.  Must  every  natural  instinct  end  in 
remorse  and  repentance?  Sin?  I  am  not  con- 
scious of  sinning.  I  did  the  best  that  it  was  in 
me  to  do.  I  simply  refused  to  be  crushed  by  your 
social  laws.  I  asserted  my  right  to  live,  my 
right  to  self-preservation,  perhaps  it  was  another 
way  of  suicide — that's  no  matter.  You  know 
what  my  life  has  been  since — how  I've  had  to 
buy  it,  hour  by  hour,  and  drop  by  drop  at  the 
nearest  chemist's.  Well,  wretched  as  it  is,  I've 
loved  it  too  dearly  to  disown  it  now !  yes,  I've 
loved  everything — everything  around  me — you 
too,  Michael;  ah,  don't  laugh,  yes,  you  too, 
even  if  I've — ah  {her  breath  comes  in  long  gasps 
and  she  reels  and  clutches  a  chair) .  Which  one 
of  you  will  help  me  to  the  door? 

Michael:  Beata,  from  now  on  there  will  be  no  one  to 
help  you. 

Beata  :  Thank  you  {with  an  intense  effort  she  walks  out 
of  the  room,  nearly  falling  over  the  chair  which 
she  does  not  notice). 

Michael      {to  Richard)  :  And  now ? 

Richard:  Do  what  you  like.  Say  what  you  like. 
Curse  me — shoot  me — I  shall  not  defend  myself. 

Michael:  You  admit  that  one  of  us  must  die? 

Richard:  No,  I  don't  admit  it,  but  I  am  at  your  service. 


234     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

Michael:  A  duel  between  us  is  impossible. 

Richard:  Impossible 

Michael:  I  have  pledged  my  word  not  to  bring  any 
scandal  on  the  Party.  You  are  under  the  same 
obligation. 

Richard:  I  know  a  way — but  {his  son's  voice  is  heard 
outside) 

-'Michael     {with  sudden  decision)  :  Norbert! 

Richard:  For  God's  sake,  Michael,  do  you  want  to 
disgrace  my  whole  house? 

Michael:  You  shall  see — Norbert.  Come  in,  my  boy, 
come ! 

Norbert:  Uncle  Michael,  what  is  the  matter  with 
Aunt  Beata?  The  doctor  Is  with  her  and  Ellen 
has  been  called. 

Michael:  Nothing  serious.  Don't  be  alarmed.  Nor- 
bert, your  father  and  I  were  just  talking  of  last 
evening.  You  remember  that  stupid  business 
interrupted  our  talk,  and  we  never  heard  the 
end  of  your  argument.  Let  us  have  it  now. 
Sit  down, — sit  down,  Richard.  There  was  one 
phrase  of  yours  that  struck  me.  You  said — 
you  said — that  if 

Richard:  You  said  that  if  a  man  of  honour  has  injured 
another  and  is  called  on  to  atone  for  it,  he  is 
the  best  judge  of  his  own  punishment. 

Norbert  {laughing)  :  Did  I?  Very  likely  but  my 
head  is  so  full  of  other  things  just  now  that  I 
couldn't  swear  to  it. 

Michael:  That  was  not  quite  what  I  meant,  but  no 
matter.  Suppose  we  take  such  a  case.  If  the 
injured  person  says  "one  of  us  two  must  die," 
what  ought  the  other  to  answer? 

Norbert:  Why,  Uncle  Michael,  I  should  say  that  de- 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     235 

pended  on  the  nature  of  the  injury — doesn't 
it? 

Richard:  Let  us  say,  for  the  sake  of  argument,  that 
the  wrong  is  the  gravest  that  one  man  can  do 
another;  let  us  say  he  has  seduced  his  friend's 
wife.  Has  the  husband  a  right  to  the  other 
man's  life? 

NORBERT :  Why,  father,  there  can  be  but  one  answer  to 
that.  And  if  the  other  man  is  a  man  of  hon- 
our— though  I  don't  see  how  he  could  be,  do 
you? — he  would  be  more  eager  to  give  his  life, 
than  the  husband  could  possibly  be  to  take  it. 

Richard:  H'm,  perhaps  you're  right.  Thank  you,  my 
boy. 

NoRBERT :  Uncle  Michael,  at  what  time  to-morrow  may 
I  see  you? 

Michael:  I'll  send  you  word,  Norbert. 

Norbert:  Thanks.  Don't  make  it  too  late,  will  you? 
Don't  keep  me  waiting  too  long.  Good-bye. 
Good-bye,  father.      {Goes  out.) 

Richard:  Well,  are  you  satisfied? 

Michael:  You  put  the  question  in  a  way  that  suggests 
suicide.     That  was  not  .   .   . 

Richard:  It  is  your  own  choice.     All  I  ask  is  two  days' 

respite.     You      won't     refuse     it?      {Michael 

shrubs  his  shoulder.)      Good-bye.      {Goes  out.) 

Hearing  of  Richard's  decision,  Beata  gives  an 
official  luncheon,  and  at  this  gathering  of  the  no- 
tabilities she  triumphantly  drinks  to  "The  Joy  of 
Living."  .  .  . 

Beata,  rising  from  her  seat  at  the  luncheon  party, 
speaks: — 

"My  dear  friends,  you  all  go  on  wishing  each  other  a 


236     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

long  life,  but  which  of  us  is  really  alive?  Which  of  us 
really  dares  to  live?  Somewhere,  far  off  in  the  distance, 
we  catch  a  glimpse  of  life — but  we  hide  our  eyes  and 
shrink  away  from  it  like  transgressors.  And  that's  our 
nearest  approach  to  living.  Do  you  really  think  you're 
alive — any  of  you — or  do  you  think  I  am?  {She  springs 
up  with  an  inspired  look.)  But  I,  at  least — I — whose 
life  is  one  long  struggle  against  death — I  who  never 
sleep,  who  hardly  breathe,  who  barely  stand — I  at  least 
know  how  to  laugh — how  to  love  Hfe,  and  be  thankful 
for  it.  (SJie  raises  her  glass,  her  voice  no  more  than  a 
hoarse  whisper.)  And  as  the  only  living  soul  among 
you,  I  drink  to  'The  Joy  of  Living.'  "  {Her  eyes  rest 
on  Richard,  and  then  turning  to  Michael)^  "I  think  I 
will  take  your  advice  and  go  into  the  other  room  for  a 
little  while"  {She  rises  with  an  effort  and  with  a  last  look 
at  Richard,  says),  "I  shall  be  back  in  a  few  minutes." 
{A  heavy  fall  is  heard  in  the  next  room.) 

She  had  put  an  overdose  of  her  heart  medicine  in 
her  glass. 

Everybody  but  Richard  and  her  husband,  thinks 
she  has  died  from  heart  disease. 

Richard's  last  words  at  the  end  of  the  play  are: — • 

You  see,  Michael,  that  I  live  because  I  must — that  I 
live  because  I  am  dead 

The  play  is  full  of  the  finest  stage  craft,  its 
simplest  scenes  leading  to  situations  of  the  most  in- 
tense interest. 

In  San  Francisco  its  reception  was  extraordinary. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

MY  next  engagement  in  London,  after  the 
production  of  The  Joy  of  Living  at  the 
New  Theatre,  was  with  the  late  Mr. 
Lewis  Waller  at  the  Imperial  Theatre — February, 
1904 — in  A  Queen's  Romance — a  fine  translation 
of  Victor  Hugo's  Ruy  Bias,  by  John  Davidson.  A 
generous  production,  that,  unfortunately,  ran  only  a 
fortnight. 

The  critics  found  it  tedious.  They  called  it  a 
piece  of  literature,  rather  than  a  stage  play.  This 
was  tragic  for  John  Davidson,  who  had  put  some  of 
his  best  work  into  the  play. 

The  public,  unfortunately,  do  not  think  it  is  their 
duty — though  the  play  be  the  work  of  a  distinguished 
author,  produced  by  a  recognised  management,  and 
played  by  artists  of  quality — to  come  and  see  it,  and 
judge  for  themselves. 

It  was  the  first  time  I  had  played  with  Mr.  Lewis 
Waller  and  in  one  review  of  the  play,  the  criticism  of 
our  different  method  was  interesting:  ".  .  .  If  we 
are  to  take  Mr.  Lewis  Waller's  fine  presentment  of 
the  hero  by  itself,  or  Mrs.  Campbell's  gracious  and 
beautiful  embodiment  of  the  Queen  by  itself,  there 
would  be  nothing  but  praise  to  give  to  each;  but  the 
play  requires  that  the  two  should  be  combined  in  one 

237 


238     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

harmony,  and  harmony  is  precisely  what  we  do  not 
find.  The  histrionic  method  of  the  two  lovers  is 
absolutely  distinct.  .  .  ." 

The  reason  I  would  give,  is  that  Mr.  Waller 
addressed  his  blank  verse  to  the  universe;  I  spoke 
my  blank  verse  to  him. 

Mounet-Sully  was  a  superb  exponent  of  this 
''speaking  to  the  universe"  method.  I  saw  him  play 
only  once — in  Antigone — at  the  time  I  remember 
I  thought  "he  is  mounted  on  a  horse,  and  rides  most 
gloriously." 

It  was  during  this  fortnight's  run  of  A  Queen  s 
Romance,  that  a  great  sorrow  fell  upon  me.  My 
uncle  was  very  ill — dying.  1  told  Mr.  Waller  all 
it  meant  to  me,  and  many  times  during  that  fort- 
night he  drove  me  from  the  theatre  to  Chelsea,  that 
I  might  get  back  to  the  care  of  my  uncle  more 
quickly. 

This  uncle  of  mine,  of  whom  the  world  has 
never  heard,  was  the  most  unselfish  of  men. 

Looking  back  now,  I  feel  my  youth  was  spent  at 
court  in  the  presence  of  a  king. 

His  life  taught  that  a  fine  sense  of  rightful  re- 
sponsibility is  the  soul's  best  armour. 

He  took  the  sting  from  poverty,  the  burden  from 
obligation. 

My  people  said  he  spoiled  me.  I  alone  know  the 
courage  he  gave  me — he  showed  me  the  right  door — 
and  I  always  felt  sure  of  his  trust. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     239 

These  few  letters  show  a  little,  his  love  and  sym- 
pathy, and  that  to  him  my  heart  was  bare: 

"Chelsea, 
"June,    1898. 

".  .  .  Will  Maeterlinck  come  to  London?  Do  you 
think  the  play  will  appeal  to  the  general  public?  Will 
not  its  wonderful  symbolism  be  lost  upon  them?  I 
believe  you  are  the  only  one  who  has  the  power  to  make 
it  understood  and  appreciated  on  the  stage.   .   .  . 

"It  will  be  a  memorable  production  if  rehearsed  with 
true  heart  and  understanding.  I  am  feeling  many  shades 
better,  though  by  no  means  what  you  would  call  fit.  I 
don't  know  that  I  ever  do. 

"It  is  so  distressing,  dear,  to  hear  of  your  deep  un- 
rest and  depression.  Would  God  w^ould  put  things 
right  for  you;  but  you  must  do  your  part,  too,  and  that 
bravely  and  loyally. 

"Try  to  look  at  life  squarely  in  the  face.  There  is 
error  in  Ideals.     As  we  build,  so  we  inhabit.   .   .  . 

"A  thousand  blessings 

"From  your  affectionate 

"Uncle  Harry." 

Writing  to  Berlin : — 

"This  should  reach  you  a  few  hours  before  the  curtain 
rises.  How  I  would  love  to  be  there !  I  do  hope  you 
will  be  in  perfect  form — and  that  the  round  of  receptions, 
at  homes,  and  suppers  will  not  have  taxed  your  strength 
and  nerves  overmuch.  Mind  you  act  the  mad  scene 
just  as  you  did  on  the  last  night  at  the  Lyceum. 

"The  Berliners  cannot  help  but  love  you. 


240    MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

"There  are  long  paragraphs  in  the  London  newspa- 
pers about  the  handsome  way  in  which  you  are  all  being 
treated  in  Berlin,  and  the  great  excitement  there. 

"I  hope  everyone  you  meet  is  sympathetic  and  kind. 
"Bless  you,  dear,  and  may  you  win  all  hearts. 

"Your  affectionate 

"Uncle  Harry." 

"P.  S. — I  hope  they  will  see  that  you  have  a  thoroughly 
good  piano  for  Mrs.  Tanqueray.  Try  it  beforehand 
if  you  can." 


(( 


"I  hope  you  are  feeling  better;  you  wear  yourself  out 
too  much.  There  won't  be  a  rag  left  of  you  soon. 
Take  rest.  I  saw  Sibyl*  yesterday  afternoon  at  the 
New  Gallery. — and  I  loved  her,  and  you  for  reading  so 
much  into  her  and  telling  me.  It  is  the  jewel  of  the 
gallery. 

"Bless  you.  .  .  . 

"Do  be  firm  and  give  your  throat  every  moment  of 
rest  possible.  Guard  against  chills,  wrap  up  warmly — 
you  cannot  be  too  careful.  .  .  ." 

This  letter  shows  how  he  indulged  my  vanity — 
a  tender  habit  of  his  to  shield  me  from  my  savage 
self-criticism. 


*  "J'ai  voulu  representer  la  Sibelle  dans  le  douloureux  devoir;  c'est 
de  predire  I'avenir — lElle  va  prophetiser — elle  enleve  lentement  les  voiles 
qui  I'entourent,  et  les  malheurs  qu'elle  ne  peut  qu'entrevoir  la  fait  souf- 
frir. 

Fernand  Khnopff. 
This  beautiful  marble  was  bought  by  Mr.  Agnew. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     241 

"Dear  .  .  . 

"I  have  been  thinking  about  your  idea  of  my  writing 
your  life;  there  is  one  petition  I  would  place  on  the 
knees  of  the  gods,  that  they  would  give  me  the  ability  to 
do  that  in  a  manner  something  worthy  of  your  dear, 
precious  self.  Oh,  if  they  would  grant  it!  But  my  life, 
my  daily  occupation  is  so  out  of  harmony  with  such  a 
sweet,  heavenly  work.  How  is  it  possible?  Only  a 
poet  could  do  such  a  thing  full  justice.  Can  you  ima- 
gine a  miserable  sign-painter  producing  a 'Botticelli?  .   .   . 

"Your  affectionate 

"Uncle  Harry." 

"...  Am  I  really  philosophical  and  unselfish?  I 
am  very  unsociable,  and  have  absolutely  lost  all  taste  for 
mixing  with  people.  I  never  did  learn  the  art  of  making 
friends — you  know  that  you've  often  told  me  as  much. 
In  one  sense  I  am  not  philosophical,  I  am  only  just  dull, 
and  I  plod  away  at  my  work.   .   .   . 

"What  are  my  attainments  in  languages  and  literature, 
art — echo  answers  'What?'  My  education  has  just  been 
sufficient  for  me  to  secure  a  clerkship  in  the  city!  Such 
is  your  uncle,  dear,  with  all  his  philosophy.  Well,  but 
he  loves  you  and  your  dear  Beo  and  Stella,  and  longs 
for  your  happiness,  and  would  count  it  a  blessing  beyond 
compare  if  he  were  able  to  contribute  to  it  really,  and 
could  stay  those  many  things  which  disquiet  the  nerves  so 
mercilessly.   .   .  . 

"Your  affectionate 
"Uncle  Harry." 

"How  mysterious,  how  strange  and  unfathomable  all 
is!  You  said  how  majestic  is  death —  and  he  is  a  king- 
maker, if  only  we  understood  it — and  it  is  only  those 


242     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

that  are  left  that  are  the  uncrowned — he  plucks  out  the 
thorn,  and  the  bitterness  passes  for  ever.  It  is  all  too 
deep  and  beyond — I  am  so  glad  I  was  at  the  theatre,  and 
I  am  happy  to  think  too,  that  you  were  glad  I  was 
there.  .  .  .* 

'God  bless  and  bless  you. 


"  juu  uiess   unu   uiess   you. 

•      •      • 


(( 


"Uncle. 

"Chelsea, 
"21st  March,  1903. 
.  From  your  tour  card  I  see  you  were  this  week 
in  Kansas  City,  and  that  next  week  you  will  give  per- 
formances in  five  different  cities.  How  strange,  and  to 
you  who  detest  travelling,  how  abominable  it  must  be  to 
have  to  scour  the  country,  and  to  bounce  into  and  out  of 
new  places  day  after  day  in  this  fashion,  like  a  pea  in  a 
frying  pan!  However,  you  will  be  in  California  on  the 
6th  of  next  month,  and  there  you  will  enjoy  the  climate 
like  anything.  When  you  are  in  San  Francisco  you  will 
be  nearer  to  Beo  than  you  have  been  for  over  two 
years.   .   .  . 

"Your  mother  is  well  and  sends  fond  love.   .  .   . 

"I  haven't  heard  from  Stella  lately.  Expect  she's 
studying  hard.  She  is  going  to  be  very  clever,  I'm 
sure. 

"Much  love. 

•      •      • 

"Uncle  Harry." 

This  letter  telling  me  I  could  bring  my  little  dog 
home  without  putting  her  in  quarantine,  was  a  great 
relief. 

*This   letter  refers  to  poor  Pat's  death. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     243 

Uncle  and  my  sister  Nina  understood  the  comfort 
the  little  creature  was  to  me  in  the  long  hours  in 
the  railway  train  and  in  the  hotels. 

"Chelsea. 
"Dear  Beatrice, 

"Welcome,  and  thrice  welcome!  I  hope  you  have 
had  a  pleasant  and  enjoyable  crossing  so  far,  Nina  and 
I  will  meet  you  at  Liverpool.  We  go  up  by  the  mid- 
night train.  Now  as  to  Pinkie,  we  sent  you  a  cable 
which  you  should  have  received  a  few  hours  before  sail- 
ing from  New  York,  that  a  concession  had  been  granted, 
relieving  you  from  the  obligations  of  the  new  quarantine 
law.  The  new  Licence  is  enclosed  herein.  So  you  are 
now  entitled  to  bring  Pinkie  home  and  keep  her  with 
you,  instead  of  packing  her  off  to  Sewell's  quarantine 
quarters.     You  have  to  thank  Nina  for  having  worked 

the  oracle  so  successfully.     She  and  I  called  on  Mr. 

at  the  Board  of  Agriculture,  and  she  made  an  eloquent 
appeal  to  him  for  Pinkie,  her  main  argument  being  that 
when  you  left  England  in  December  last  you  didn't  know 
that  such  severe  regulations  would  be  made  in  place 
of  the  then  existing  ones;  that  Pinkie  cost  between  £40 
and  £50  and  would  certainly  die  if  separated  from  you 
for  any  length  of  time.  Many  other  things  she  also  said 
in  a  very  sweet  way,  which  we  will  tell  you  when  we 

meet;  but  the  end  of  it  was  that  Mr. very  kindly 

granted  the  concession;  and  no  words  can  describe  the 
difference  in  our  feeling  when  we  knew  that  Pinkie  was 
free;  such  a  burden  seemed  to  roll  off  our  spirits  that 
Nina  said  she  felt  as  if  she  could  fly  in  the  air  like 
Ariel.  .  .  . 

"Your  affectionate  uncle 

"Harry." 


244     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

To  quote  the  words  of  another: — 

Uncle  never  "exalted  material  over  immaterial  things, 
or  claimed  any  foundation  for  the  Arts  hut  in  moral  and 
in  spiritual  truths."  He  knew  "compromise  is  as  im- 
possible in  literature  and  the  Arts,  as  in  matters  of 
faith;  and  that  the  general  public  shrinks  from  the  lab- 
orious and  exhaustive  ecstasy,  in  which  literature  and 
the  Arts  are  understood." 


Hundreds  of  my  children's  school  letters  lie  be- 
fore me — no  different,  I  suppose,  from  hundreds 
of  other  children's  school  letters. 

How  often  the  thought  was  with  me — "can  it  be 
that  they  are  happy,  quite  well,  and  I  am  not  there — 
the  daily,  hourly  outpourings  of  love — hushed — and 
yet  the  child  is  well  and  happy — better  perhaps — 
happier?" 

My  art,  as  it  were,  became  my  gift  to  my  children, 
as  well  as  their  daily  bread. 

Who  will  destroy  these  letters — this  heap  of  early 
treasures?  Not  I — they  carry  the  joyous  echo  of 
youth  and  hope — the  root  and  fibre  of  my  endeav- 
our. .  .  . 

My  boy  wanted  to  be  a  sailor — the  Royal  Navy — 
that  meant  money,  success,  social  influence — I  must 
work  hard — I  did — he  had  his  wish. 

How  happy  he  was  at  school,  and  on  the  Britan- 
nia! 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     245 

"Darling  mother, 

"...  I  am  glad  the  plays  were  a  success.  I  also 
had  a  little  success  this  week,  for  I  got  my  'colours'  for 
Rugby  football.   .   .   . 

"We  had  a  test  exam,  in  Algebra  yesterday,  and  I  got 
148  out  of  150,  and  two  other  boys  got  150.  I  hope  I 
do  as  well  in  the  real  exam.   .   .   . 

"With  all  my  heart  full  of  love  and  kisses, 

"Beo." 

On  the  Glory  in  China  years  afterwards  he  wrote: 

"H.  M.  S.  Glory, 
"China  Station, 
"At  Wel-Hai-Wei. 
"Sept.  2nd,  1902. 
"Darling  Uncle  Harry, 

"...  I  have  been  everywhere,  and  seen  everything 
since  I  last  wrote:  Japan,  Manchuria,  Wei-Hai-Wei, 
Malay  Peninsular,  Corea,  practically  everywhere  on  the 
China  Station.  The  people  are  absolutely  different  in 
each  place;  up  North  the  Chinese  are  magnificent  speci- 
mens, all  about  6  ft.,  with  tremendous  arms  and  legs  and 
broad,  open  faces,  the  remnant  of  the  old  fighting  race 
of  thousands  of  years  ago.  Down  South  they  are  small, 
wizened,  and  half  of  them  deformed  from  opium  smok- 
ing, and  dissipation  in  all  forms. 

"Before  we  went  our  summer  cruise  with  the  Fleet 
we  went  to  Taku,  which  is  the  port  of  Pekin  where  all 
the  fighting  took  place.  They  are  still  very  turbulent 
there. 

"Then  we  went  to  Shang-hai-kwan  and  Ching  Wang 
Tao.  We  saw  the  great  wall  of  China  at  Shang-hai- 
kwan;  it  is  wonderful.     Thousands  of  years  old,  and  over 


246     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

a  thousand  miles  long,  extending  from  the  Eastern  Coast 
of  China  to  the  boundary  of  Thibet,  It  has  Pagodas  or 
forts  about  every  mile,  all  communicating  with  one  an- 
other by  underground  passages.  It  was  built  to  keep 
the  northern  'barbarians'  from  invading  China,  in  her 
prime. 

"We  are  at  present  at  Wei-Hai-Wei;  we  have  been 
here  since  the  Coronation. 

"Shooting  is  going  strong;  snipe  simply  abound  on 
the  mainland. 

"Some  adventurous  mad  French  millionaire  built  a 
magnificent  hotel  on  the  mainland  at  Mahto  (or  rather 
Port  Edward  now),  the  village  opposite  Len  Kung  Tao, 
the  island  of  Wei-Hai-Wei;  thus  attracting  some  few 
people  who  come  for  their  health,  for  Wei-Hai-Wei  is  a 
very  healthy  place. 

"I  am  enclosing  a  copy  of  the  W ei-H ai-W ei  Gazette, 
which  is  our  only  paper  here.  We  pay  10  cents,  or 
2  5^d.,  for  it.  It  is  the  Coronation  Number,  so  extra 
grand  and  flashy. 

"I  pass  for  Sub-Lieut,  in  April,  1904,  so  don't  ex- 
pect me  home  till  about  June,  1904.  I  then  have  six 
weeks'  leave  and  go  to  Greenwich  College  for  six 
months,  and  then  to  Portsmouth  College  for  six  months; 
I  then  go  to  sea  again.  .  .  . 

"I  am  sending  this  letter  by  the  Siberian  Railway, 
which  has  just  opened,  so  yours  will  be  one  of  the  first 
English  letters  to  go  by  It.  It  takes  exactly  three  weeks 
for  a  letter  to  go  from  Wei-Hai-Wei  to  London.  By 
P.  &  O.  steamer  It  takes  six  weeks  or  more.  All  we  do  Is 
to  send  our  letters  to  the  Russian  Consul  at  Chefoo  and 
ask  him  to  post  them  with  Russian  stamps  and  send  them 
In   his    mall.     It   Is   very   convenient   and    more    novel. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     247 

Fancy  going  home  by  it!  Three  weeks  in  a  train  with 
only  a  Russian  Boor  as  a  companion.  Ugh!  ...  I  will 
write  again  and  send  you  some  photographs. 

"We  go  to  Japan  soon.  Hurrah!  Lovely  Japan. 
It  instils  new  life  into  one  to  breathe  the  air  and  see  the 
scenery  there.  This  Admiral  keeps  midshipmen  well 
employed.  Every  month  he  gives  us  all  a  job  to  do  in 
our  'spare  time.'  This  last  month  we  had  to  illustrate 
the  fighting  power  of  every  nation  on  the  China  Station, 
all  of  it  intelligence  work.  Mine  filled  a  foolscap-sized 
book  about  one  inch  thick.   .   .   . 

"I  have  been  getting  on  pretty  well  with  my  cricket 
and  games.  Ours  is  a  very  sporty  ship,  from  Admiral 
downwards.  The  Admiral  goes  bathing  every  morning 
and  is  a  keen  golfer.  Every  officer  in  the  ship  plays 
golf.   .   .   . 

"Must  end  now,  and  will  write  longer  next  time.  We 
are  going  through  our  yearly  firing  at  the  Range. 

"Give  my  love  to  everybody  and  tell  them  to  write  to 
me. 

"Tons  of  love, 
"From  your  loving  nephew, 
"Alan  U.  Campbell." 

H.  M.  S.  Glory, 
"China  Station, 
"August  1 8th,  1903. 
"Darling  Mother, 

"Thank  you  so  much  for  your  last  letter.  I  have 
plenty  of  news  to  tell  you  this  time.  To  begin  with,  / 
shall  probably  be  home  by  Xmas  or  soon  after.  Isn't 
it  lovely?  We  have  been  at  Wei-Hai-Wei  for  about 
three  months  and  leave  it  for  the  last  time  on  the  26th 
of  this  month.     We  have  been  very  gay.     I  have  been 


248     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

playing  two  cricket  matches  a  week.  I  always  play  for 
the  'Navy'  in  large  matches.  My  batting  average  is 
60  now.  About  two  weeks  ago  I  made  the  record  score 
out  on  this  ground  2/5  not  out. 

"I  and  a  few  other  mids  have  been  creating  quite  a 
'furore'  by  giving  magnificent  society  picnics.  Of  course, 
they  are  very  easy  to  give  from  a  ship,  because  you  can  al- 
ways get  a  large  boat. 

"I  am  glad  the  clothes  and  make-up  gear  are  coming 
out.  We  have  quite  a  lot  of  talent  amongst  our  mid- 
shipmen, who  are  a  very  sporty  lot  in  every  way. 

"We  sail  on  the  26th  for  Vladivostok.  Ugh!  The 
average  temperature  in  the  year  is  36  degrees,  I  believe. 
Then  we  are  going  to  Hakodate  in  Japan;  lovely  riding 
on  beautiful  ponies.  .  .  ,  After  Hakodate  we  go  to 
Hong  Kong  for  four  days  to  coal,  and  then  to  Singapore 
to  meet  Rear-Admiral  Curzon  Howe.  Then  we  come 
up  to  Hong  Kong  about  ist  November,  and  after  that 
we  may  go  home  at  once,  or  we  may  refit  out  here  and 
go  home  about  February — it  is  the  cause  of  great  argu- 
ment amongst  the  officers. 

"I  shall  have  a  six  week's  leave  when  I  go  home,  and 
then  go  to  the  Channel  Squadron  for  about  two  months, 
and  then  pass  and  go  to  Greenwich  College,  where  I 
shall  be  near  you  for  about  three  months  at  least.   .   .   . 

"I  will  write  again  and  tell  you  some  more  news. 

"Give  my  love  to  Stella  and  tell  her  to  write  at 
once. 

"With  all  the  world,  sun,  moon,  and  stars  full  of  love 
and  kisses, 

"From  your  loving  son, 

"Beo  Campbell.^' 

Then  came  a  change  in  his  letters. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     249 

"H.  M.  S.  King  Alfred, 
'Tosted  at  Port  Said, 
"March  8th,  1904. 
"Darling  Mother, 

"Our  mails  have  gone  astray  for  the  last  three  months, 
so  I  have  not  received  a  letter  from  you  for  a  long  time. 
Mind  you  and  Stella  are  on  the  Portsmouth  Jetty  to 
welcome  me  home. 

"Fancy,  three  years  and  three  months.  I  don't  expect 
you  will  recognise  me. 

"Darling  mother,  you  must  withdraw  me  from  the 
service:  bodily,  nobody  could  be  better  suited  to  it  than 
myself,  but  in  mind  I  am  miles  from  it. 

"I  expect  you  will  laugh  at  me  ...  it  sounds  rot,  I 
know,  but  I  have  that  feeling.   .  .  . 

"I  have  become  sick  of  foreign  countries;  they  all 
copy,  and  not  one  is  as  good  as  England.  Besides,  I  feel 
as  if  I  want  to  be  near  you  and  Stella.   .  .   . 

"Dear  mother,  do  write  and  let  me  know  what  you 
think.     Write  to: — 

"H.  M.  S.  King  Edward, 
"On  Homeward  Passage. 

"I  just  missed  making  1,000  runs  last  season  at  cricket. 
My  average  was  about  fifty,  and  top  score  213  not  out. 
I  have  left  my  two  golf  cups  to  be  inscribed,  but  they 
will  come  afterwards. 

"We  have  a  concert  on  board  every  Friday  night, 
which  helps  to  pass  the  time  away.   .   .   . 

"Please  do  write  and  let  me  know  what  you  think  as 
soon  as  you  get  this,  and  I  shall  receive  it  before  I 
leave  Malta.   .   .   . 

"Don't  think  this  letter  is  written  on  the  impulse  of 
the  moment;  I  have  been  wanting  to  write  it  for  a  year 


250    MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

and  a  half,  but  I  have  waited  to  see  if  I  changed,  but  1 
did  not. 

"Mind  you  see  about  it. 

"With  all  the  world,  sun,  moon  and  stars  full  of  love 
and  kisses, 

"From  you-r  loving  son, 

"Beo  Campbell." 

"P.  S. — The  Diplomatic  Service  is  the  one  I  should 
like  most  of  any  service.   .  .  . 

"So  do,  do,  do  take  me  out  now,  at  once.  .  .  ." 

I  realised  he  wanted  a  different  life — Oxford — the 
Diplomatic  Service — to  write  plays. 

When  he  came  home,  his  old  schoolmaster  had  a 
long  talk  with  him,  and,  in  the  end,  on  his  advice,  I 
withdrew  Beo.  His  schoolmaster  said,  "the  boy  has 
character  and  determination  and  has  made  up  his 
mind;  better  withdraw  him." 

And  so  we  plot  and  plan  for  our  children's  success 
and  happiness,  but  they  take  their  lives  into  their 
own  hands,  with  all  the  courage  and  faith  and  trust 
in  this  world's  goodness,  and  its  fine  chances,  with 
which  we  have  imbued  them;  and  on  our  side  we 
must  have  the  greater  courage  and  faith  to  "let  go," 
and  the  day  came  when  I  was  glad  I  did  as  he  wished. 

And  here  before  me  are  three  big  bundles  of  my 
Stella's  letters: 

"Darling,  darling  Mother, 

"Good  night,  good  morning,  and  good-bye  until  next 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     251 

Saturday.  I  feel  a  tiny  bit  sad,  but  I  will  cheer  up,  for 
next  Saturday  will  come  soon  again  and  then  I  will  stay 
with  you  until  Monday. 

"You  do  not  know  how  much  I  love  you,  my  darling 
mother.      I  will  try  my  hardest  to  be  good. 

"Your  own  loving  little  girl, 

"Stella.'' 

My  lovely  daughter — she  must  be  well  educated — 
she  must  be  presented  at  Court — she  must  have  every 
chance  to  make  a  happy  marriage,  and  be  able  to 
bring  up  her  children  in  comfort,  without  this  dread- 
ful, nerve-shattering  toil  of  mine;  and  so  her  letters, 
like  my  son's,  urged  me  onwards,  and  bound  "ar- 
dent hope  upon  my  feet  like  shoes." 

I  sent  Stella  to  four  different  schools,  but  she  grew 
restless  at  them  all.  And  then  on  the  advice  of 
friends,  I  sent  her  to  Germany,  where  I  felt  she 
would  study  restfully — and  have  the  fun  of  the 
Opera  and  plays — away  from  the  excitement  of  my 
work. 

I  went  to  stay  with  her  in  Dresden,  and  saw  how 
well  she  was  taken  care  of;  but,  at  the  same  time, 
I  thought  the  Frauleins  took  a  little  of  the  "home" 
love  away  from  the  girls — I  wonder? 

"Wederstrasse,   16, 

"Dresden,  A. 
"February  i6th,   1902. 
"I  am  so  glad  you  are  having  such  a  success,  darling. 
You  can't  think  how  I  love  being  here,  and  I  love  my 


252     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

lessons,  too;  somehow  the  Dresden  air  seems  to*  make 
one  want  .to  work.  I  am  trying  so  hard  to  get  on  with 
my  music,  but  I  am  afraid  I  shall  never  be  able  to  play 
well.  I  am  also  drawing  hard.  Fancy,  to  think  I  have 
been  here  nearly  four  months.  It  feels  like  four  weeks. 
Only  I  don't  feel  a  bit  strange;  but  I  wish  I  could  just 
run  over  to  America  and  give  you  a  hug  and  then  come 
back  again;  wouldn't  it  be  just  lovely  to  spend  a  few 
hours  with  you?  Are  you  coming  home  in  the  Autumn, 
or  when?  Don't  tire  yourself  too  much,  darling. 
Eight  and  nine  performances  a  week  and  all  the  parties 
and  things  are  far  too  much  for  you. 

"I  want  to  go  to  Beyond  Human  Power  (Uber 
unsere  Kraft).  It  would  be  very  interesting  to  see  how 
they  do  it,  wouldn't  it?  I  believe  the  Pastor  Sang  is 
dreadful — always  wears  a  beautiful  smile  all  through 
the  piece,  like  the  cat  in  Alice  in  Wonderland.' 

"From  your  own  loving  daughter, 

"Stella." 

"Dresden. 
"Thank  you  a  million  times  for  your  dear  letter.  I 
was  wild  with  joy  when  I  got  it.  I  hadn't  heard  for  so 
long — but  I  was  ever  so  much  wilder  when  I  heard  the 
news.  Darling,  I  daren't  believe  it  too  much  in  case 
something  happens  to  prevent  your  coming.  Oh!  it 
would  be  lovely.  You  must  come  to  the  Albertshof  so 
that  you  can  get  me  if  you  want  anything.  Then  at 
(first  you  must  be  regularly  lazy  and  thoroughly  rest  your- 
self and  lie  down  a  lot,  and  go  for  long  drives  to  the 
woods — they  look  so  lovely  just  now,  all  shades  of 
brown  and  green.  And  then,  when  you  are  quite  rested, 
I  must  take  you  to  the  beautiful  statues  and  pictures  and 
old  jewelry  and  to  see  Weicke  act.     Oh,  darling,  it  will 


AGAIN  IX  "the  second  MRS.  TANQUERAY" 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     253 

be  glorious,  and  you  really  will  learn  German  won't  you? 
You  learn  so  quickly.  And  if  you  learn  with  Fraulein 
Nachtigal  she'll  teach  it  you-  very  soon.  Oh!  it  will 
be  nice,  and  I've  such  a  heap  of  lovely  books  for  you  to 
read  when  you  know  German.  Oh,  mind  you  come,  dar- 
ling.  .   .   . 

"Best  and  best  love  to  you,  darling,  and  mind  you  do 
come,  my  darling  Mother. 

'Your  own  Stella." 

"Dresden. 
"Darling  Mother, 

".  .  .  Lady  Elcho  took  me  to  see  Tristan  and  Is- 
olde the  other  night.  It  was  lovely.  I  do  so  want  you 
to  hear  the  music.  And  this  week  I  went  to  hear 
Weicke  recite — how  I  wished  you  had  been  there.  It 
was  wonderful.  You  know  he  interests  himself  greatly 
in  literature  of  every  nation — and  he  occasionally  gives 
a  sort  of  lecture;  that  is,  he  takes  some  unknown,  or  not 
very  well-known,  poet  and  telk  you  a  little  about  him, 
and  then  recites  different  examples  of  his  poetry.  I 
knew  the  poetry  fairly,  and  had  read  everything  he  re- 
cited, so  I  enjoyed  it  immensely.  He  read  so  well  that 
one  kept  thinking  he  was  speaking  his  own  thoughts. 
Fraulein  Nachtigal  was  with  me,  and  the  whole  time  we 
said  to  one  another — if  only  you  had  been  there !   .   .   . 

"From  your  own  loving 
"Stella." 

Then  she  grew  restless  in  Germany  and  begged 
to  come  home.     She  wrote  to  me,  saying: — 

"Darling  Mother, 

".   .   .  I'm  not  despondent,  but  the  only  thing  I  really 


254     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

would  care  to  do,  is — act.  But,  of  course,  if  you  think 
I  have  no  talent,  I  shouldn't  want  to — but  do  give  me 
a  chance.   .   .  ." 

When  she  came,  she  had  a  season  in  London  and 
dances,  and  much  gaiety.  D.  D.  Lyttleton  presented 
her  at  Court:  but  social  life  did  not  interest  her;  it 
was  the  life  of  the  stage  she  wanted. 

So  again,  as  with  my  son,  I  had  to  "let  go."  Was 
there  ever  a  mother  worthy  of  the  name,  or  a  wife 
either,  for  the  matter  of  that,  who  did  not  feel  that  if 
things  went  wrong  in  her  ambition  for  those  she 
loves,  that  she  was  in  some  way  to  blame — such  a 
juggernaut  is  conscience — if  we  keep  it  alive. 

When  my  boy  left  the  Navy,  and  when  my  girl 
wanted  to  act — I  was  quite  sure  that  I  had  failed  in 
my  duty  to  them  in  some  way.  The  thought  seems 
foolish  en  )ugh  to  me  now. 

This  letter  from  the  late  Lord  Charles  Beresford, 
who  saw  Stella  when  I  was  acting  at  Blackpool, 
speaks  of  her  beauty: 

"H.  M.  S.  King  Edward  VII 

"Channel  Fleet. 
"You  delightful  woman, 

"I  am  so  disappointed  and  cross  that  the  weather 
prevented  my  coming  to  see  you  play  to-night.  I  did  so 
want  to  see  you,  and  that  girl.  ...  I  never  saw  such  a 
beautiful  darling  in  my  life  as  she  looked  last  night. 
What  was  the  matter  with  the  people;  they  were  as 
enthusiastic  and  delighted  in  their  welcome  to  me  as  if 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     255 

I  had  been  the  King  of  Ireland.  I  am  sorry  the  weather 
prevented  either  the  officers  or  the  men  landing,  or  the 
people  coming  to  the  ship,  sea  and  beach. 

"Bless  you,  my  dear,  give  my  love  to  tha't  infinitely  at- 
tractive and  charming  girl. 

"Yours  ever  sincerely, 
"Charles  Beresford." 

^  *  M^  M^  * 

I  was  very  much  of  a  child  with  my  children: 
feeling,  I  suppose,  that  they  musthe  helped  by  simple 
standards,  until  old  enough  to  form  their  own  opin- 
ions: so  that  when  the  "pull"  came  it  was  particu- 
larly hard  for  me.  .  .  . 

The  awful  problem  facing  us  to-day — how  far  the 
parents'  happiness  should  be  sacrificed  to  the  child's 
faith  in  life — is  not  one  to  go  into  here  .  .  .  to-day, 
when  we  have  to  repay,  rebuild,  make  our  amende 
honorable,  for  the  faith  in  the  cause,  that  drove  our 
young  to  make  the  greatest  sacrifice  of  all.  .  .  . 

Even  as  an  Ant-Hill. 

In  a  garden  near  to  a  yard  was  an  ant-hill.  How 
long  it  had  been  there  I  do  not  know;  it  was  a  very 
large  ant-hill.  There  -were  palaces,  store  houses, 
prison  houses:  there  were  theatres,  too,  where  ants 
used  to  perform — one 'ant  had  a  trick  of  impersonat- 
ing any  other  ant  he  chose — they  were  paid  in  honey. 

Another  ant  was  able  to  put  the  emotions  of  his 


256     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

heart  and  head  into  his  little  feet,  and  he  could 
dance  as  no  human  being  ever  danced.  There  were 
wonderful  buildings,  walls,  roads,  and  halting  places, 
little  air  holes  for  invalids  to  breathe  in  the  strength- 
ening air,  and  shafts  for  sunlight,  canals  for  the 
dew.  And  there  were  schools  with  teachers  of  mor- 
als, teachers  of  philosophy.  And  there  were  many 
prayer  houses,  where  they  prayed  in  silence,  and  the 
prayer  in  their  hearts  was  always  against  Destruc- 
tion. 

And  this  is  what  happened. 

An  enterprising  and  ambitious  ant  went  on  a  long 
expedition  of  discovery.  He  climbed  many  stones, 
bricks,  large  pieces  of  wood — smiling  at  difficulties 
that  only  made  him  climb  higher. 

One  day  he  came  to  a  smooth  place,  very  white; 
he  smelt  delicious  scents,  and  there  was  a  warmth 
beyond  his  dreams,  and  all  round  him  was  sugar: 
when  he  had  eaten  his  fill  he  went  further,  and  found 
the  other  nice  things  that  are  kept  in  a  larder.  After 
surfeit  and  rest,  back  he  went  with  his  little  pouch 
full,  over  the  great  distances,  up  and  down  bricks, 
the  stones  and  wood,  back  to  the  beautiful  ant-hill, 
and  told  the  emperors  and  empresses,  the  kings  and 
the  queens,  and  the  councillors  all  about  the  good 
things  he  had  found.  There  was  much  debate  and 
grave  discussion;  he  was  made  a  great  general  and 
given  an  army  of  many  millions,  and  slaves  went  be- 
fore him  to  make  the  road  easier.  Yellow  sand  was 
found — wonderful   sand,  which  before,   only  with 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     257 

the  greatest  labour,  could  they  get,  and  they  needed 
this  sand  to  make  their  ant-hill  secure. 

And  the  food  and  the  sand  were  brought  back,  and 
the  ants  grew  lazy;  there  was  no  need  to  work  so 
hard,  to  store  and  fetch  sweet  honey.  They  spent 
their  time  dancing  and  singing,  and  dancing  devel- 
oped so,  that  they  could  dance  any  way — on  their 
heads,  upside  down 

To  wander  and  to  get,  was  the  ambition  of  their 
hearts,  and  less  and  less  they  prayed  their  silent 
prayer. 

One  day  a  lady  said  to  her  maid:  ''Twice,  Mary, 
I  have  found  a  horrid  ant  in  the  bread.  You  are 
not  clean;  you  do  not  clean  your  larder  carefully." 
Mary  was  offended,  and  she  said  to  her  fellow  serv- 
ants: "I  know  where  those  beastly  little  ants  come 
from ;  it  is  that  horrid  ant-hill  outside  the  yard  by  the 
garden  gate." 

With  great  determination  Mary  went  into  the 
kitchen,  and  took  the  kettle  of  boiling  water  ofif  the 
hob,  walked  deliberately  into  the  yard  and  poured 
and  poured  the  boiling  water  on  to  the  beautiful 
ant-hill.  She  passed  many  ants  on  her  way — a  bil- 
lion ants  would  not  have  covered  her  foot,  and  two 
billion  ants  would  not  have  covered  the  kettle. 
Ants  could  not  see  things  so  much  larger  than  them- 
selves. 

They  perished  and  were  scattered.  Some  were 
filled  with  the  madness  of  horror  that  stole  their 
wits  away — some  were    filled  only  with  evil  excite- 


258     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

ment — some  just  ran  on,  crowding  stupidly  together 
— some  became  inert  with  grief  and  died.  But  the 
cunning  ones  quickly  began  to  build  another  ant-hill. 
They  called  their  work  "progressive";  they  had  run 
such  a  long  way.  They  gave  freedom  to  others,  and 
these  thought  themselves  fine,  original  fellows. 

And  a  new  religion  cropped  up  that  each  and  every 
ant  was  free  to  live  as  he  chose — to  work  as  he 
would — for  in  the  scattering  and  the  rush,  all  selfish- 
ness came  to  the  surface,  and  sin  and  discontent  were 
everywhere,  and  Destruction  was  within  themselves. 

In  time  evil  became  exhausted,  as  it  always  does, 
and  what  evil  bred,  perished.  The  old  eternal  wis- 
dom of  simple,  selfless  faith  in  right-doing,  slowly 
got  the  upper  hand,  and  the  honest  workers  trium- 
phed over  the  lawless  ones. 

Another  beautiful  ant-hill  grew.  And  in  the 
prayer  houses  silent  prayer  was  again  in  the  hearts 
of  all,  against  Destruction,  but  these  words  were 
added  aloud :  "If  it  come,  let  it  not  scatter  our  wits — 
blinding  our  vision." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

IN  June  1904,  at  the  Camden  Theatre,  I  pro- 
duced Warp  and  Woof,  by  Edith  Lyttelton.* 
What  a  first  night  it  was!  The  mounted 
police  had  to  be  called  to  keep  the  curious  crowd 
from  the  door.  They  came  to  see  all  the  "fine  ladies 
and  gentlemen,"  for  it  had  leaked  out  that  the  play 
was  by  the  wife  of  a  distinguished  Member  of 
Parliament,  and  that  all  the  smart  world  would  be 
present. 

It  was  an  excellent  little  play. 

A  dreadful  thing  to  contemplate,  but  a  very  true 
thing,  is  that  to  produce  an  intelligent  play  of  a 
friend,  is  far  more  exciting  than  to  produce  a  play 
by  William  Shakespeare,  and  for  many  reasons.  To 
begin  with,  Mr.  Shakespeare  is  not  present  to  blame, 
to  praise,  or  to  please.  If  his  play  is  a  failure  it  is 
your  fault,  if  it  is  a  success,  you  do  not  really  share 
in  it.  Every  word,  every  scene  is  known  before- 
hand; there  is  never  the  thrill  of  surprise;  he  is 
covered  from  his  crown  to  his  toes  with  tradition; 
it  is  all  a  "fly  on  the  wheel"  business.  And  if  you 
want  to  do  things  your  own  way,  in  Mr.  Shakes- 
peare's play,  you  are  called  "difficult" — until  you  al- 
most burst  with  indignation. 

*The   Hon.   Mrs.   Alfred   Lyttelton. 
259 


26o     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

But  in  the  case  of  a  friend's  play,  what  a  differ- 
ence! There  is  the  happiness  of  helping  a  friend 
to  success,  and  it  is  all  such  fun.  .  .  . 

Warp  and  Woof  was  full  of  simple,  straight- 
forward sincerity;  many  characters  were  well  drawn. 
The  papers  called  it  a  "tract,"  a  "sermon";  it  showed 
up  the  thoughtlessness  and  selfishness  of  one  class, 
the  wicked  "sweating  system"  of  another,  and  the 
suffering  of  the  helpless.  To  those  who  were 
not  aware  of  it  already,  there  was  the  discovery  that 
the  authoress  was  a  woman  of  much  more  than  or- 
dinary intelligence. 

My  next  venture  was  a  third  visit  to  America,  and 
this  time  Stella  accompanied  me,  though  not  to  act. 

The  fatigue  of  constant  travelling  told  upon  her, 
and  after  some  weeks  she  went  to  stay  with  friends  of 
mine  in  Canada. 

On  nth  October,  1904,  I  opened  in  New  York, 
under  Charles  Frohman's  management,  in  The  Sor- 
ceress, translated  by  Louis  N.  Parker,  from  the 
French  play  of  Sardou,  La  Sorciere.  The  play 
was  a  great  success  in  New  York,  and  later  on  in  all 
the  big  cities. 

I  played  nothing  else  that  season  from  October 
to  April. 

Everywhere  the  showy,  splendid  production,  and 
the  brilliantly  theatrical  role  of  "Zoraya"  delighted 
the  audience.  This  role  was  entirely  different  from 
anything  I   had  played   in  America  before.     The 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     261 

statement  that  had  often  been  made — that  most  of  the 
women  I  played  were  alike — subsided. 

I  fancy  the  human  mind  naturally  notices  most 
actively  what  is  strange  to  it,  and  this,  perhaps,  ex- 
plains the  fact  that  on  my  first  visit,  there  were  those 
who  found  my  acting  monotonous. 

To  an  eye  unfamiliar  with  a  certain  style  of  paint- 
ing, an  artist's  pictures,  whether  reproducing  a  hay- 
stack or  a  Cathedral,  look  alike;  it  sees  in  all,  that 
style  which  is  novel  to  it,  but  when  the  work  is 
more  familiar,  it  is  different.  Then  the  imagination 
of  the  artist,  and  the  many  different  aspects  of  his 
mind — his  points  of  feeling  and  "attack" — are  grad- 
ually recognised.  Perhaps  it  was  a  little  like  this 
with  my  work. 

In  Philadelphia,  after  I  had  been  on  tour  for 
about  five  weeks,  I  slipped  on  the  step  of  the  broug- 
ham, which  had  come  to  take  me  to  the  theatre. 

I  had  Pinkie  under  one  arm,  and  some  books  un- 
der the  other.  The  books  I  dropped,  but  I  did  not 
drop  Pinkie — and  I  broke  my  knee-cap  in  two. 

What  a  happening  it  was!  I  remember  being 
carried  out  of  the  brougham — in  some  peculiar  way 
in  slipping  I  had  fallen  into  it.  They  lifted  me 
out  on  to  a  chair  with  my  knee  somewhere  near  my 
chin,  and  the  broken  part  of  my  leg  dangling.  Doc- 
tor Martin  was  sent  for.  When  he  came  he  broke 
up  a  wooden  hat  box  to  make  a  splint,  and  then 


262    MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

pulled  down  my  leg  and  placed  it  straight.  T 
had  noticed  in  the  mirror  when  I  was  being  carried 
up  in  the  chair  in  the  lift,  that  my  face  was  blue.  I 
asked  the  doctor  why  that  was,  and  he  said,  break- 
ing the  knee-cap  was  the  most  painful  thing  in  the 
world. 

I  insisted  at  once  on  sending  a  cable  to  my  mother, 
and  as  the  doctor  was  getting  the  splint  ready,  I 
dictated  it  to  my  dear  friend  Miss  Waldron.  She 
was  sitting  on  my  bed  as  she  wrote  it  down,  with 
her  face  turned  away  from  me.  I  asked  her  why 
she  would  not  look  at  me;  she  would  not  answer. 
She  told  me  afterwards  that  my  face  was  distorted 
with  pain. 

I  remember  my  one  dread  was,  that  my  mother 
might  be  terrified  by  some  awful  accounting  in  the 
papers.     She  was  very  ill   at  the   time.     I   cabled 

"do  not  believe  exaggerated  accounts  in  papers. 
Not  anything  serious." 

Then  there  was  a  long  drive  to  the  Pennsylvania 
University  Hospital.  I  was  told  that  fifteen  doctors 
were  in  the  room  when  Doctor  Martin  set  and  wired 
my  knee.  They  knew  the  accident  meant  the  loss 
of  a  small  fortune  for  me,  and  perhaps  of  my  ca- 
reer— and  somebody  stole  my  black  silk  stocking  as 
a  memento! 

I  remember  that  kind  and  most  gifted  actor,  the 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     263 

late  Richard  Mansfield,  telegraphed,  asking  whether 
he  could  take  on  my  company,  that  he  would  be  de- 
lighted to  do  so,  if  it  would  help  me. 
"Ouida"  sent  me  the  following  letter: 

* 

Lucca, 

"loth  January,  1905. 
"Dear  Madam, 

"I  am  unknown  to  you,  but  I  venture  to  thank  you  for 
the  admirable  example  you  give  of  affection  for  your 
dogs. 

"It  is  most  valuable  in  a  world  which  is  so  cruelly  in- 
different to  the  canine  race. 

"I  was  grieved  to  read  of  your  accident,  and  hope 
your  captivity  will  be  sooner  over  than  the  doctors 
think.  It  is  a  very  great  misfortune  to  befall  one  so 
gifted  and  admired. 

"With  my  sincere  sympathy, 
"I  remain, 
"Faithfully  yours, 

"OuiDA." 

Dr.  Martin  told  me  that  if  I  could  bring  myself 
to  realise  that  I  was  quite  well,  and  that  only  my  knee 
was  sick,  and  if  I  absolutely  controlled  my  nerves, 
no  crutches  would  be  needed,  and  I  would  be  able 
to  act  again  in  less  than  five  weeks. 

Stella,  who  was  still  in  Canada  with  my  friends, 
was  sent  for. 

Beo  wrote  from  England: 


264     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

"4th  January,  1905. 
"Darling  Mother, 

"Poor  you!     How  it  must  have  hurt.     I  can't  bear 
being  so  far  away  from  you,  and  you  ill.     Is  Stella  with 
you?  .   .   . 
"Do  write  please. 

"I  wish,  oh  I  wish  I  could  come  out  to  you.  I  am 
sure  if  you  don't  let  me  come  out  to  you,  I  shall  come  as 
an  emigrant  for  £2.   .   .   . 

"Have  you  really  to  abandon  the  tour?  They  have 
huge  placards  up,  bigger  than  when  Port  Arthur  fell. 

"I  wish  I  was  with  you  to  comfort  you.   .   .  . 

"Tons  and  tons  of  love, 

"Beo." 

"5th  January,  1905. 
"Darling  Mother, 

"Do  write  and  let  me  know  everything  I  am  so 
anxious.  The  Daily  Telegraph  says,  'internal  injuries 
are  bad,'  and  that  you  may  be  permanently  lame.  Do 
tell  me  all,  it  is  so  awful  being  so  far  away;  I  hope  Stella 
is  a  comfort  to  you.  .  .  . 

"Tons  of  love,  darling, 

"Beo." 

And  how  we  were  spoilt! 

Friends  called  in  battalions,  and  flowers  and  sweets 
and  cakes  poured  in  upon  us. 

In  that  Quaker  City,  the  people  seemed  to  me  more 
simple,  more  home-loving  than  in  other  cities  in 
America.  They  speak  differently;  they  look  at  you 
with  a  deeper  glance;  they  quickly  get  a  little  hold 
of  the  real  feeling  in  you.  .  .  . 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     265 

But  to  go  on  with  my  story.  I  was  allowed  no 
crutches.  The  third  week  two  young  doctors  were 
allowed  to  walk  each  side  of  me;  I  hobbled  up  and 
down  the  corridors  with  them,  and  we  used  to  sing 
glees. 

One  dying  man  asked  to  see  Pinkie — my  little  dog 
had  been  allowed  in  the  hospital — and  she  went  in 
to  visit  him.  He  was  very  ill,  and  in  his  delirium 
he  used  to  say  again  and  again:  "Oh,  the  little  dog, 
the  little  dog." 

The  matron.  Miss  Marion  Smith — never  was  there 
such  a  comforting  woman — mothered  Stella  and 
me:  how  did  she  find  time  with  all  her  responsibil- 
ities?    I  was  in  my  own  home  in  that  hospital. 

After  two  weeks  I  became  depressed.  My  leg 
was  out  of  the  plaster  cast,  but  I  could  not  move  it. 
I  realised  all  the  money  I  had  lost,  and  would  lose, 
and  that  perhaps  I  would  never  be  able  to  walk  prop- 
erly again.  Doctor  Martin  was  sent  for.  It  was 
about  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening.  He  did  not 
listen  to  more  than  three  words,  and  then  said :  '^Oh, 
well,  if  you  are  feeling  like  that,  you  must  come  to 
the  ball  to-night.  It  is  the  ball  in  America;  the 
'Philadelphia  Ball'  " ;  and  he  turned  to  the  nurses  and 
said:  "Dress  her,  make  her  look  beautiful,  and  I  will 
come  back  for  her  in  an  hour."  And  they  dressed 
me  in  a  lovely  black  velvet  gown,  embroidered 
with  gold  thread  that  Mrs.  Osborne  had  made  me — 
that  wonderful  dressmaker  who  died  long  ago — and 
they  carried  me  downstairs  and  laid  me  in  a  carriage. 


266     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

Doctor  Martin,  and  a  nurse  drove  with  me,  and  they 
carried  me  into  the  ballroom  and  put  me  on  a  couch, 
and  there  I  remained  until  five  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing. Needless  to  say,  I  forgot  all  about  my  broken 
knee  and  my  worries. 

Doctor  Martin  pointed  out  to  me  a  man  who  wa's 
dancing  in  a  most  high-spirited  but  odd  fashion, 
and  said :  "That  is  one  of  my  patients."  I  asked  what 
was  the  matter  with  him,  and  he  answered:  "He  was 
too  eager  to  catch  the  train  to  get  to  his  business — 
he  fell,  and  the  train  went  over  his  two  feet."  I 
said:  "But  he  has  two  feet."  "Oh,  yes!  They  are 
wooden  feet,  but,  as  you  see,  he  dances  all  right." 

How  many  friends  I  have  in  Philadelphia,  and 
how  often  I  wish  they  were  not  so  far  away! 

I  think  it  was  in  less  than  five  weeks  I  was  acting 
The  Sorceress  again,  but  for  over  two  years  I  some- 
times suffered  severe  pain  in  my  knee. 

A  certain  Doctor  Chamberlain  was  in  the  wings 
watching  me  on  the  night  of  my  return,  and  when 
I  came  ofif  the  stage  after  the  big  act — in  which  I 
had  a  very  difficult  fall,  and  had  to  remember  my 
knee — he  felt  my  pulse  and  said  "Normal ;  few  artists 
come  off  the  stage  with  a  normal  pulse;  you  are  all 
right,  my  dear,  knee  and  head." 

One  amusing  incident  on  this  tour  I  remember. 

We  had  arrived  at  some  town  after  a  long,  dreary, 
and  airless  journey,  and,  though  it  was  freezing 
hard,  Stella  and  I  felt  we  must  have  a  drive  before 
we  went  to  the  hotel. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     267 

We  sent  the  maid  on  with  the  boxes,  and  drove  in 
a  large  open  brougham  and  pair,  that  had  come  to 
meet  us  at  the  station — to  see  the  sights  and  the  park. 
I  may  mention  that,  so  far  as  my  memory  goes,  every 
town  in  America  has  a  park. 

As  we  were  driving  across  a  bridge,  we  saw,  in 
the  very  centre  of  the  frozen  river,  a  spotted  brown 
and  white  dog,  standing  shivering  on  a  piece  of 
loose  ice — the  most  forlorn,  miserable  object.  We 
stopped,  and  got  out  of  the  carriage,  and  leant  over 
the  bridge  gazing  at  the  poor  animal,  wondering 
what  on  earth  we  could  do. 

Some  rough-looking  boys  came  up;  I  said:  ''I 
will  give  you  three  dollars  if  you  will  go  and  fetch 
that  dog."  They  grinned,  saying:  ''Not  much," 
or  "Nothing  doing" — "Not  if  I  knows  it,  not  for 
Joseph,"  in  the  American  language.  "Five  dollars," 
they  turned  their  backs  on  me.  "Ten  dollars," 
they  stood  still.  I  turned  to  Stella,  remarking  in 
a  voice  they  could  hear:  "An  English  boy  would 
go  in  for  nothing."  To  them  I  said:  "I  -wish  my 
son  were  here;  he  would  go  in  fast  enough."  Stella 
whispered:  "I'm  glad  he  isn't,  mother;  I  know 
he  would  not."  In  despair — "Twelve  dollars."  One 
of  the  boys  slowly  turned,  went  round  the  bridge  and 
down  the  bank  into  the  river,  cracking  through  the 
ice,  and  fetched  the  dog — to  our  great  relief. 

A  few  days  afterwards  Stella  and  I  were  in  a 
street  car,  and  the  conductor  came  up  to  me  and 
said:     "Well,  you  saved  Mrs. 's  life."     I  stared, 


268     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

not  knowing  what  he  meant.  ''Why,  that  money  you 
gave  for  that  Spot  dog  got  her  the  doctor,  and  the 
medicine  she  wanted,  and  she'll  be  all  right  now." 
I  am  sure  I  blushed,  as  the  other  passengers  smiled 
at  us;  both  Stella  and  I  felt  a  little  uncomfortable, 
but  were  glad  to  hear  "Spot"  was  all  right. 

And  this  reminds  me  of  a  "brain  wave"  that  saved 
Pinkie  from  being  turned  out  into  the  cold. 

A  fussy  official  came  up  to  me  in  a  car,  and  said: 
"No  dogs  allowed  on  this  car."  Only  the  tip  of 
Pinkie's  nose  was  showing  out  of  the  fur  of  my 
coat.  With  a  Sidonian  sneer,  I  said:  "DOG? 
It's  a  'Verberduna.'  "  He  paused,  looked  at  her,  and 
then  at  me,  and  said:  "Better  keep  it  in  a  cage,"  and 
walked  on. 

And  I  remember  finding  a  bird  shop  kept  by  some 
cruel  man.  Many  of  the  birds  were  dead,  with 
their  heads  through  the  bars  of  their  cages,  in  their 
little  water  troughs.  Never  was  there  such  a  sight, 
or  -such  a  filthy  shop.  I  spoke  to  the  man.  I  won- 
der now  what  it  was  I  said.  He  did  not  answer,  and 
as  I  turned  to  go,  I  saw  a  bowl  of  water  quite  frozen 
with  some  goldfish  wriggling  at  the  bottom.  I 
lifted  it  up  without  a  word  and  walked  back  to  the 
hotel  with  it.  I  then  sent  for  the  manager,  and  told 
him  of  the  hideous  sights  I  had  seen. 

As  I  placed  the  bowl  of  fish  on  the  mantel-piece, 
he  asked  me  if  I  had  bought  it.  I  said:  "No,  I 
took  it  out  of  the  shop  and  brought  it  here,  so  that 
the  ice  might  thaw.     Look  at  the  poor  fish."     He 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     269 

said:  "They  won't  hurt,  but  the  man  will  have  you 
up  for  theft."  I  rang  the  bell  for  the  lift  and  went 
up  to  my  room.  When  I  came  down  the  bowl  of 
fish  had  gone  and  there  was  a  smile  on  the  manager's 
face. 

Another  incident  happened  during  this  tour  which 
was,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  startling. 

Returning  to  my  hotel  late  one  afternoon,  the  ele- 
vator boy  refused  to  take  me  up  to  my  floor  "be- 
cause there  was  a  fire  on  the  floor  below  it."  I  ex- 
plained that  my  daughter  was  in  my  room.  He  said 
that  he  could  not  help  that;  it  was  the  rule  of  the 
hotel.  Some  expression  came  into  my  face,  and 
some  sound  into  my  voice  as  I  exclaimed:  "Good 
God!  Is  my  child  to  be  roasted  alive  for  the  rules 
of  this  hotel?  Take  me  up  at  once!" — the  boy 
obeyed  me  like  a  lamb! 

It  was  nothing  serious;  someone  had  fallen  asleep 
smoking  a  cigar. 

At  Pittsburgh  there  is  a  long  walk,  stretching  for 
I  do  not  know  how  many  miles ;  and  straight  down 
from  the  pavement  are  the  thousands  of  steel  in- 
dustries, a  boiling  hell,  a  hund'red  and  two  hundred 
feet  below  you.  There  is  no  handrail,  or  any  fence 
between  you  and  the  drop,  and  often  there  is  a 
dense,  black  fog  from  the  fumes  and  the  smoke. 
I  asked  an  American  what  happened  when  people 
fell  over.  He  said:  "I  guess  they  don't  do  it  a 
second  time." 

At  the  end  of  the  tour  I  had  to  smuggle  Pinkie 


270     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

home  to  England.  How  I  did  it  I  suppose  I  ought 
not  to  tell. 

There  was  no  possibility  of  getting  another  per- 
mit, and  so  I  bought  a  Mexican  parakeet  and  took 
it  into  my  cabin  with  me.  I  thought  if  the  sailors 
heard  Pinkie  bark  I  could  say  it  was  the  parakeet. 
Unfortunately  I  told  this  to  Lord  Charles  Beresford, 
who  was  on  board,  and  he  amused  himself  by  asking 
passengers  if  they  had  heard  Mrs.  Campbell's  re- 
markable parakeet  "bark." 

People  began  to  soispect. 

I  was  still  lame — not  noticeable  on  the  stage — 
and  my  knee  was  very  painful  going  up  or  down 
steps.  But  when  the  "Donkey"  came  up  to  the  side 
of  the  ship  there  was  a  lady  who  wanted  to  go  to 
Holyhead,  and  down  the  ladder  she  went;  nobody 
noticed  that  under  her  coat  was  a  small  black  silk 
bag.  Many  anxious  faces  were  watching  her  from 
the  deck  above,  amongst  them  her  daughter. 

At  Holyhead  the  lady  went  to  an  hotel,  and  in  the 
morning  she  caught  an  early  train  to  London, 
and 

Pinkie  was  very  old,  and  nearly  blind,  and  I  must 
be  forgiven. 

But  there  was  trouble,  although  I  had  avoided 
the  quarantine. 

Mr.  Bouchier  Hawksley  appeared  in  court  for  me, 
and  he  said,  I  believe,  that  the  little  dog  was  blind 
and  had  no  teeth,  and  that  I  had  broken  my  leg 
rather  than  drop  her. 


:}'wv  ■■  '\fn^ 


AS   ELIZA  DOOLITTLE  IN  GEORGE   BERNARD   SHAw's   "pYGMALIOn" 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     271 

The  judge  asked  Mr.  Hawksley  what  he  thought 
would  be  the  right  fine  to  impose.  Mr.  Hawksley 
said  gravely.  "In  view  of  all  the  circumstances, 
thirty  shillings." 

I  had  understood  the  fine  was  one  hundred  pounds, 
and  the  captain  of  the  ship  also  would  be  fined  one 
hundred  pounds.     I  was  much  relieved. 

On  my  return  to  England  I  played  the  tour  I  have 
already  spoken  of  with  Madame  Sarah  Bernhardt 
in  Pelleas  and  Melisande,  reappearing  with  her  in 
London  at  the  Coronet  Theatre. 

In  May,  1906,  I  produced  at  the  Criterion  Thea- 
tre The  Whirlwind,  translated  by  Mr.  Melville 
from  the  French  play  of  Mr.  Bernstein,  La  Rafale; 
also  Undine,  a  poetic  one  act  play  by  Mr.  W.  L. 
Courtney.  Neither  of  these  plays  met  with  much 
success. 

I  also  produced  The  Macleans  of  Bairness,  a  ro- 
mantic play  by  Edith  Lyttelton.  This  play  had 
some  charm  and  imagination,  but  did  not  appeal  to 
the  public. 

Then  came  what  to  me  was  a  nightmare — The 
Bondman  at  Drury  Lane,  by  Mr.  Hall  Caine. 

I  remember  one  or  two  things  about  this  play — 
the  blowing  up  of  a  sulphur  mine  to  "Rachmaninofif's 
Prelude,"  Miss  Henrietta  Watson  and  I  squashed  up 
against  the  wall  in  the  dark,  like  flies,  quite  certain 
that  the  next  moment  we  would  be  killed  by  the 
most  awful  "business,"  "properties,"  sulphur  fumes. 


272     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

rushing  and  screaming  "supers,"  "property"  walls, 
earth  and  stones  hurled  about.  Also  there  were 
real  cows  that  I  had  to  lead  across  the  stage.  I  had 
a  short-sighted  dresser  of  the  "hook-scratching- 
down-the-back-for-eye"  kind.  My  own  dresser, 
Julia,  was  engaged  elsewhere,  and  was  unable  to 
come  to  me.  I  remembered  saying  I  could  not  act, 
I  could  not  live,  I  could  not  breathe  in  the  din  and 
the  misery;  and  dear  Miss  Henrietta  Watson  came 
into  my  dressing-room,  and  helped  me  to  dress  for 
the  rest  of  the  run  of  The  Bondman.  Bless  her 
kindly  heart! 

And  so  it  will  be  seen  that  some  spoiled  me  utterly, 
others  condemned  me  eternally. 

I  can  still  hear  "Rachmaninoff's  Prelude"  that  I 
had  once  thought  beautiful. 

POM! 

POM! 

POM! 

I  remember,  too,  at  the  rehearsals  of  this  play  get- 
ting into  great  trouble  because  I  suddenly  asked, 
"Whose  are  these  children?  Are  they  mine?" 
Lots  of  children  were  about  me,  catching  hold  of 
my  hand  and  my  skirts.  I  had  not  read  the  book, 
and  I  could  not  grasp  the  plot  of  the  play.  I  be- 
lieve now  they  were  my  brothers  and  sisters,  but  I 
do  not  remember. 

On  the  first  night  I  found  Mr.  Hall  Caine  white 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     273 

and  trembling  behind  the  scenes.  I  felt  dreadfully 
sorry  for  him,  and  thoughtlessly  said,  "Is  this  your 
first  play?"  I  have  been  wickedly  accused  of  say- 
ing it  on  purpose,  and  of  being  heartless,  which 
was  just  what  I  was  not.  Ignorant,  impulsive,  yes; 
for,  had  I  stopped  to  think,  I  should  have  remem- 
bered   his  many  successes. 

These  plays  were  followed  by  an  interesting  en- 
gagement at  the  Court  Theatre  in  Ibsen's  Hedda 
Gabler,  under  the  management  of  Messrs.  Ved- 
renne  and  Barker.  I  think,  perhaps,  too,  in  the 
background  somewhere,  Mr.   Bernard   Shaw. 

Mr.  Barker  attended  the  rehearsals,  and  sometimes 
Mr.  Bernard  Shaw;  their  "basso-relievo"  method 
fidgeted  me.  However,  so  far  as  I  remember,  they 
left  me  alone. 

My  Latin  "genre"  was  the  very  antithesis  of 
"Hedda";  that  I  knew  beforehand,  but  I  hoped  I 
could  overcome  this. 

The  translation  used  was,  I  fancy,  by  Mr.  William 
Archer,  but  I  think  it  had  been  tampered  with.  To 
me  it  was  unsatisfactory;  words  here  and  there,  I 
thought  badly  chosen,  and  I  regretted  more  than 
once  that  I  could  not  read  the  play  in  the  original. 

The  following  are  some  of  the  thoughts  that  came 
to  me  as  I,  for  a  fortnight,  studied  "Hedda"  into  the 
early  hours  of  the  morning. 

Hedda's  physical  condition  should  never  quite 
be  out  of  the  mind  of  the  audience — she  is  in  the 


274     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

first  months  of  pregnancy,  and  the  child  she  carries 
is  of  a  husband  who  is  a  figure  of  ridicule  to  her,  and 
a  man  whose  voice,  whose  love,  whose  presence,  tear 
her  nerves  to  ribands — that  "immortal  ass  Tesman," 
but  "a  respectable  man,"  and  a  man  who  was  "eager 
to  provide  for  her" — she  thought  it  safe  to  marry 
him.  .  .  . 

Eilert  Lovborg's  nature  she  scorns — a  licentious 
dreamer,  a  drinker — such  a  man  she  could  not  marry. 
She  knew  him  too  well  through  his  "confidences" — 
they  had  been  together  mentally  in  deep  dangerous 
waters — to  believe  that  anything  or  anyone  could 
save  him. 

Hedda  was  not  jealous — in  the  accepted  mean- 
ing of  that  word — of  the  flufify,  golden-haired  Thea; 
neither  was  she  spiteful  nor  malicious.  The  de- 
struction of  Eilert's  manuscript  was  a  psychological 
and  physiological  action — Thea  and  Eilert's  "child." 

So  dangerously  near  melodrama,  that  situation  on 
the  stage!  .  .  . 

Hedda  hands  Lovborg  a  pistol — she  is  a  "General's 
daughter."     "Do    it    'beautifully,'    Lovborg."  .  .  . 

"Shoot  yourself  through  the  temple  like  a  man;  a 
man  who  knows  the  beast  in  him  is  his  master.  .  .  ." 

A  "beautiful"  deed — yes,  Hedda  could  respect 
that — she  could  respect  him  then.  .  .  . 

Hedda  is  essentially  a  good  woman,  a  proud,  in- 
telligent woman,  a  well-bred  woman  in  the  highest 
sense.  A  vital  creature,  suffocated  by  the  common- 
place. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     275 

People  have  told  me  Ibsen  "  hated  "  Hedda — that 
she  was  a  "  great  snob,"  a  "  cruel  woman." 

Hedda's  absurd  feeling  for  "  beauty,"  her  warped 
"  sense  of  honour  "  defies  the  word  "  snob  "  and  the 
cunning  vulgarity  the  word  suggests. 

She  is  acutely  and  tragically  unhappy — her  pride 
in  the  dust — this,  in  her  physical  condition,  explains 
her  neurotic  savagery. 

And  then  the  end. 

Morbidly  she  foresees  her  child  another  Tesman 
— and  Tesman  closer  to  that  silly,  foolish  Thea  than 
he  could  ever  be  to  her.  .  .  . 

Lovborg,  the  man  who  has  enchained  her  spirit — 
dead — and  she  herself  in  the  power  of  Judge  Brack, 
a  cunning  animal,  of  yet  lower  strata.  .  .  . 

Again  she  is  the  "General's  daughter."  Better 
dead. 

She  shoots  herself  through  the  temple.  .  .  . 

Someone  has  said  Ibsen  is  never  ''unjust,"  always 
"intolerably,  fatefully  true." 

And  this  means  his  actors  and  his  audience  must 
think,  and  think  straight. 

My  engagement  was  for  seven  matinees,  to  be 
played  within  three  weeks.  I  was  delighted.  I  felt 
sure  if  I  could  play  "Hedda"  with  success  the  play 
would  run  for  months.  I  spent  on  Hedda's  ward- 
robe well  over  the  salary  I  would  receive. 

The  Court  Theatre  was  packed  at  all  the  matinees, 
to  its  capacity. 


2/6     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

Mr.  Barker  came  to  my  dressing-room  and  told 
me  I  could  have  the  translation  to  take  to  America 
and  to  the  English  provinces,  but  that  the  Court 
Theatre  was  not  for  "stars,"  and  the  play  would  not 
be  continued  after  the  seven  performances  agreed 
upon,  and  then  he  remarked,  "What  beautiful  hair 
you  have!" 

I  went  in  misery  to  Mr.  Hawksley,  asking  if  any- 
thing could  be  done.  He  pointed  out  that  my  con- 
tract was  for  seven  matinees  only. 

Mr.  Heinemann,  who  held  the  acting  rights,  made 
every  effort,  but  Messrs.  Vedrenne  and  Barker  were 
adamant. 

Hedda  Gabler  was  taken  off.  If  my  memory 
does  not  fail  me.  The  Silver  Box  was  put  on. 

So  this  play  by  a  giant  genius;  a  play  perfectly 
con'structed — no  empty  contrivance,  no  set  speeches, 
every  thought,  every  word,  magnificently  signifi- 
cant; demanding  the  best  an  artist  can  give — this 
play  on  the  eternal  tragedy  of  /mpersonal  love  un- 
awakened — ceased,  because  the  management  took 
exception  to  the  "star  system" — at  least,  such  was  the 
reason  given  to  me. 

Why  I  was  looked  upon  as  a  "star"  I  do  not  know. 

The  picture  in  my  mind  of  a  "star"  is  a  lady  who 
walks  on  red  carpets  between  ferns  and  palm  trees, 
people  behind  her  carrying  her  bouquets,  and 
elderly,  devoted  admirers  standing  each  side  of  her, 
hat  in  hand.  These  good  things  have  never  hap- 
pened to  me. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     277 

An  afifectionate  letter  from  that  clever  artist,  Miss 
Henrietta  Watson,  chows  that  some  members  of  my 
profession  were  pleased  with  my  performance. 

"Wednesday  night. 
"My  dear   friend, 

"I  wish  I  could  but  half  tell  you  the  extraordinary 
impression  you  made  on  me  yesterday  and  all  of  us  with 
your  'Hedda.'  I  wouldn't  have  missed  it  for  anything. 
You  stood  so  utterly  alone;  you  looked  and  felt  the  part 
most  wonderfully.  I  followed  your  every  thought  and 
expression,  I  believe.  You  seemed  so  marvellously  real, 
I  quite  forgot  the  dear  woman  I  love  and  admire,  and 
found  myself  looking  at  this  curious,  fascinating,  and  un- 
satisfied creature.  Oh,  I  can't  tell  you  how  I  have  talked 
about  you.  I  should  have  liked  to  have  sat  with  you  for 
a  whole  hour  and  talked  of  nothing  but  you  in  your 
'Kedda.' 

"I  loved  your  level,  still  voice,  but  what  meaning  and 
what   repression ! 

"My  dear,  you  were  wonderful,  and  I  kiss  your  feet. 

"You  must  be  very  tired. 

"My  thanks  and  love  always,  always. 

"Henrietta  Watson.'' 

One  London  critic  of  repute  said:  "Mrs.  Patrick 
Campbell's  'Hedda  Gambler'  was  not  one  hairs- 
breadth  out."  On  the  provincial  tour  the  Manches- 
ter Guardian  said:  ".  .  .  By  virtue  of  a  perfect 
sensitiveness,  Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell  marked  the 
quality  of  each  separate  personal  relation.  .  .  ." 

This  is  just  what  Ibsen  enables  one  to  do. 


278     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

After  my  losses  at  the  Criterion  Theatre  and  these 
few  matinees  at  the  Court  Theatre,  there  was  noth- 
ing for  it  but  America  again,  but  this  time  Stella  was 
to  come  with  me  to  act,  for  at  last  I  had  given  in. 
She  had  done  good  work  with  Miss  Rosina  Fillipi, 
the  teacher  she  herself  had  chosen. 

I  find  in  a  letter  written  by  me  to  my  mother  at 
this  time: — 

"Darling  Mother, 

".  .  .  .  If  Stella  can  do  well,  life  will  be  much  more 
interesting  for  me,  for  I  am  very  tired  of  being  alone  in 
my  work.   .   .  ." 

In  another  letter  I  say: — 

"...  Beo  may  go  as  secretary  with  Mr.  Hawksley 
to  Africa.  Mr.  Hawksley  is  doing  his  best  to  arrange 
it.  If  this  falls  through  there  is  an  idea  of  his  doing 
some  work  with  a  man  who  is  making  torpedo  boats,  and 
to-day  I  hear  from  D.  D.  Lyttelton  that  both  Alfred 
Lyttelton  and  she  have  heard  of  two  things  that  might 
suit  him  .  .  .  and  yet  D.  D.  has  found  time  to  worry 
about  me  and  my  affairs.     She  is  such  a  darling  .... 

"Catherine  Horner's  wedding  to  young  Raymond  As- 
quith  was  very  pretty.  Stella  wore  the  dress  she  is 
wearing  in  the  third  act  of  Tanqueray  when  'Ellean'  re- 
turns from  Paris.  We  went  to  the  wedding  and  to  the 
reception  at  Mrs.  Gladstone's.*  Then  I  had  a  rehear- 
sal from  8  p.  m.  to  11.30  p.  m.  in  the  large  room  at  the 
Cafe  Monico.     After  this  I  came  home,  dressed,  and 

*  viscountess  Gladstone. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     279 

went  to  the  Asqulth's  ball.  We  stayed  there  until  3  a.  m. 
I  found  Beo  and  Stella  dancing  reels,  and  everyone  so 
gay  and  happy, 

"Stella  has  been  rehearsing  beautifully.  Beo  came 
and  was  delighted  with  her  and  very  surprised.  I  am 
grateful  that  I  can  help  her.  She  is  wonderfully  obedient 
and  quick,  and  sees  in  a  moment  when  she  is  stiff  or  in- 
effective,  .   .  . 

Another  letter  in  which  I  say: 

".  .  .  .  Mr,  Hawksley  is  doing  his  best,  but  it  is 
very  difficult.  So  many  want  the  post — young  English- 
men out  there,  with  plenty  of  experience.  .  .  ." 

In  the  end  the  appointment  for  Beo  fell  through, 
so  it  was  decided  that  he,  too,  should  come  with  me 
to  America. 

Stella  and  I  had  started  the  tour  in  the  English 
provinces  to  get  ready  for  America,  before  he  joined 
us. 

From  Edinburgh  I  wrote  to  my  mother: 

"My  darling  Mother, 

"Beo  has  joined  us  as  happy  as  a  lark.  I  will  take 
him  with  me  to  America;  there  are  so  many  opportunities 
there.  He  will  meet  interesting  and  influential  people, 
and  it  will  be  good  for  him  to  see  the  country  and  look 
after  us.  He  is  at  this  moment  playing  bridge  with 
Stella,  and  I  have  some  young  people  to  be  with  them 
this  evening  while  I  do  some  study.  I  am  sure  you  will 
think  it  better  for  Beo  to  come  with  me  than  to  go  into 
an  office  in  London  and  live  in  lodgings. 


28o     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

"The  Wemyss's   are  within  motoring  distance   from 
here,  and  D.  D.     We  will  see  them  all  this  week, 

"Let  me  know  if  there  is  anything  you  particularly 
want,  dearest. 

"My  love  to  you.  .  .  . 

"Your  loving 
"Beatrice/' 


"Cardiff. 
"Darling  Mother, 

"Stella  got  on  splendidly  as  'Mrs.  Elvsted.'  I  wish 
you  had  been  there.  She  was  as  plucky  as  could  be. 
We  are  rehearsing  all  day. 

"And  now  for  the  great  news! 

"Beo  is  gradually  making  up  his  mind  to  be  an  actor. 
What  do  you  think? 

"So  there  will  be  him  for  me  to  teach,  too,  and  if  I 
haven't  learned  enough  patience  by  the  end  of  the 
American  tour  it  will  be  a  strange  thing. 

"Beo  cannot  quite  make  up  his  mind,  because  he  first 
wanted  to  be  an  Admiral'  and  then  a  'Prime  Minister,' 
and  just  an  actor  seems  a  'come  down'  to  him. 

"I  am  so  grateful  to  the  stage,  I  cannot  feel  as  he  does; 
we  talk  together  about  it  at  night.  I  think  Stella's  suc- 
cess  has   encouraged   him.  .  .  . 

"Your  loving 
"Beatrice.^' 

I  remember  an  early  rehearsal  on  this  short  tour. 

Our  hotel  was  next  to  the  theatre.  Beo  arrived  in 
his  mackintosh  over  his  pyjamas.  The  members  of 
the  company  endeavoured  to  appear  unconcerned, 
and  I  tried  to  keep  my  dignity.     Beo  saw  my  serious 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     281 

face,  and  said  ''Well,  mother,  I  overslept,  and  I 
thought  it  would  worry  you  more  if  I  was  late" ;  but 
he  had  that  look  in  his  eye,  so  sure  that  his  naughti- 
ness would  amuse  me. 

As  far  back  as  1902  I  had  arranged  for  my  mother 
to  live  at  ''Gensing  Lodge,"  St.  Leonards.  I  found 
her  on  my  first  return  from  America  in  apartments 
alone,  circumstances  having  led  my  unmarried  sister 
to  live  with  a  girl  frie'nd  in  the  country. 

''Oensing  Lodge"  is  a  delightfully  peaceful  con- 
vent and  pension,  kept  by  Augustinian  Nuns — 
French  ladies  who  had  come  over  from  Paris  some 
years  before. 

My  mother  lived  there  until  she  died  at  the  age 
of  73  in  1908. 

The  Convent  and  its  little  chapel  and  the  gentle 
Nuns  pleased  my  mother,  who  could  never  have 
found  peace  or  happiness  in  ''apartments." 

She  was  strangely  sensitive  to  her  surroundings, 
and  the  religious  atmosphere,  the  gardens,  and  the 
view  of  the  sea  over  the  trees  from  her  window, 
brought  her  the  beauty  she  needed  always. 

Stella  and  I  used  to  stay  with  her,  and  there  was 
something  extraordinarily  restful,  after  the  life  of 
the  theatre,  in  the  simple  religious  life — hearing 
the  voices  of  the  Nuns  singing  at  early  Mass,  and 
the  scent  of  the  incense. 

Some  of  the  ladies  who  lived  in  the  Convent  were 
interesting  and  amusing,  and  my  mother  had  many 
friends. 


282     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

The  Nuns,  too,  were  fond  of  me.  I  remember 
the  Rev.  Mother  saying:  "It  would  be  wonderful 
if  you  would  devote  your"  great  energy  and  gifts  to 
the  service  of  God." 

Very  many  years  afterwards  in  America,  Mrs. 
Edgar  Kent,  who  had  just  left  "Gensing  Lodge"  to 
join  her  husband — a  clever  member  of  my  company 
— told  me  the  Nuns  often  spoke  of  me  and  remem- 
bered me  in  their  prayers. 

This  letter  I  wrote  to  mother  a  few  days  before 
sailing  t-o  America  with  Beo  and  Stella: — 

"33,  Kensington  Square, 
"28th,  October,  1907. 
"Darling  Mother, 

"I  cannot  tell  you  how  much  there  is  to  do  here,  but 
I  must  come  to  you  on  Wednesday.  If  it  is  late,  I  will 
go  to  the  Hotel  first,  and  come  to  you  in  the  morning. 
I  shall  have  to  be  back  in  town  again  on  Thursday  for  an 
afternoon  rehearsal.    I  hope  I  shall  find  you  looking  well. 

"Remember  all  you  want  to  ask  me,  darling,  for  it 
will  be  many  months  before  we  meet,  and  I  would  not 
like  to  forget  anything. 

"Beo  has  absolutely  gone  mad  at  the  idea  of  America, 
it  is  impossible  to  manage  him.  I  think  he  is  wild  with 
joy  at  the  thought  of  being  on  the  Lusitania. 

"We  have  a  suite  of  rooms  on  the  sunny  side  of  the 
upper  deck,  quite  regal;  and  all  through  the  tour  in 
America  I  am  to  have  a  private  train,  brass  bedsteads, 
dressing  room,  observatory  room — so  you  can  see  miles 
down  the  railway  line.     Imagine   it!     Stella   and   Beo 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     283 

and  Pinkie,  our  man  servant  as  well  as  a  maid,  all  the 
company;  and  we  carry  a  coloured  cook,  four  other 
coloured  servants,  and  four  English  'stage  staff.' 

"And  now  they  cable  me  from  New  York  that  they 
want  me  to  produce  there  Hoffmannsthal's  Electra, 
together  with  a  little  one-act  Japanese  play  called  The 
Moon  of  Yamato. 

"Good-bye  darling,  all  news  when  we  meet. 

"Your  own  loving 

"Beatrice." 

My  mother  answered: 

"My  darling  Beatrice, 

"I  can  Imagine  how  alarmingly  busy  you  must  be.  I  am 
not  surprised  at  Beo  going  mad  at  the  Idea  of  America. 
When  he  smells  the  sea  again  he  will  wish  he  was  an 
Admiral.  I  hope  you  will  keep  well.  It  is  rather  a 
great  deal  for  you  to  think  and  plan.   .  .  . 

"The  train  sounds  so  pleasant  and  jolly,  with  sitting 
room  and  observatory  car,  but  I  am  wondering  if  you 
will  get  any  sleep. 

"I   cannot  tell  you   how   delighted   I    am   at   Stella's 

success.     Father   O' was    also   pleased,    and   gave 

me  the  enclosed  cutting  of  Stella  from  the  Graphic. 

"I  cannot  think  of  anything  I  want,  the  jacket  only, 
perhaps  one  or  two  cushions  would  look  well  in  my  sit- 
ting room.   .   .  . 

"My  love  to  Stella,  to  you  darling,  and  Beo. 

"I  am  better,  so  don't  worry  about  me. 

"Your  loving 
Mother." 

In  a  letter  to  her  I  say: 


284     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

"It  is  your  beautiful  nature  that  keeps  you  well  and 
young  and  lovely." 

My  mother  was  suffering  from  a  fatal  illness;  my 
anxiety  for  her  was  a  vital  moment  to  me,  and  yet 
another  incentive  to  hard  work. 

She  wrote  to  me  more  than  once: 

"A  thousand  thanks  for  all  your  goodness  to  me 
darling,  do  take  care  of  yourself  also," 

Again  I  find  myself  writing  to  Mother: 

".  .  .  We  have  begun  'one-night  stands,'  and  the  work 
is  rather  dreadful,  but  the  thought  that  I  have  a  little 
money  to  spare  in  case  those  I  love  want  it,  is  a  great 
comfort,  and  you,  darling,  have  first  claim  always.  .  .  ." 

It  must  not  be  thought  that  I  am  peculiarly  gen- 
erous; it  is  in  our  blood.  Every  member  of  the 
family,  if  they  had  it,  would  give  away  at  once  what 
they  thought,  at  the  moment,  was  needed  more  by 
another. 

People  will  say  this  leads  to  the  workhouse.  I 
can  only  speak  for  myself  and  say  it  has  found  for 
me  very  many  generous  friends.* 

I  remember  a  certain  aged  Peer  telling  me  in  great 
distress  that  his  son  had  gambled  away  all  the  money 
he  himself  had  saved,  over  and  above  his  inheritance, 

*  Many  years  ago  Bernard  Shaw  said  to  D.  D.  Lyttelton,  "We  had 
better  dress  up  as  beggars  and  go  to  Stella's  door,  and  what  we  collect 
may  keep  her  until  she  gets   another   engagement." 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     285 

during  his  long  life.  I  said,  "Why  take  it  so  ser- 
iously? To  me  that  large  sum  of  money  only  repre- 
sents the  money  you  have  not  given  to  those  who 
may  have  needed  it."  He  never  mentioned  the  sub- 
ject to  me  again. 

The  life  of  the  stage  is  a  hard  one;  the  sacrifices 
it  demands  are  enormous.  Peaceful  normal  life  is 
made  almost  impossible  by  the  ever  over-strained  and 
necessarily  over-sensitive  nerves — caused  by  late 
hours,  emotional  stress,  swift  thinking,  swift  feeling, 
and  that  odd  reculer  pour  mieux  sauter  which  comes 
upon  ail  public  performers:  but  the  reward  is  no 
mean  one,  and  my  gratitude  to  my  profession  is  un- 
bounded. 

To  go  back  to  the  Lusitania.  Every  delight  and 
amusement  young  people  could  wish  for  surrounded 
Beo  and  Stella,  and  I  was  happy,  too.  They  were 
safe,  beautiful,  full  of  eager  life,  and  my  heart  was 
full  of  pride  and  hope,  and  above  all,  they  were  with 
me. 

On  our  arrival  we  went  to  the  Plaza  Hotel  and 
then  came  the  "Interviewers!" 

Beo  coming  into  the  room,  and  seeing  the  Inter- 
viewers— with  me  sitting  in  the  centre.  Pinkie  on 
my  lap — according  to  a  newspaper,  said  with  a 
"British  drawl:  T  say,  it  looks  like  a  game — I 
haven't  had  my  dinner.' — and  the  young  Englishman 
strolled  out."  I  do  not  remember  this,  but  on 
another  occasion,  when  I  was  vainly  trying  to  say  the 
right  thing  to  them,  Beo  strolled  into  the  room  and 


286     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

said,  ''I  say  Mother,  I  can't  find  my  boots.  For  some 
extraordinary  reason  this  remark  thrilled  the  Inter- 
viewers. I  suppose  no  American  boy  would  have 
said  this  to  his  mother  at  such  a  moment. 


Hedda  Gabler  was  received  with  much  praise 
in  New  York.* 

I  remember  a  performance  of  Hedda  Gabler  in 
Kalamazoo — practically  the  city  had  turned  out  to 
see  it.  Ibsen  had  never  been  played  there  before. 
I  wanted  to  send  a  cable,  but  was  assured  there  was  no 
one  in  the  post  office. 

In  another  town  I  was  told  by  my  business  man- 
ager that  this  serious  play,  and  my  quiet  method,  had 
filled  many  of  the  audience  with  deep  sympathy; 
they  made  sure  I  was  an  invalid. 

*  Nenu  York  Evening  World. —  ...  It  was  a  merciless,  cold  per- 
formance. The  smouldering  fire  in  the  gloomy  eyes  flamed  brightly 
only  once,  when,  with  figure  drawn  up  and  head  thrown  back,  in  a 
pose  of  magnificent  challenge,  Mrs.  Campbell  held  out  the  pistol  that 
was  to  make  an  end  of  the  disgraced  and  drunken  Lovborg.  Mrs. 
Campbell's  personality  seemed  to  exhale  suggestions  of  some  vague, 
mysterious  evil  in  Hedda's  relations  with  Lovborg.  Mrs.  Campbell's 
Hedda  seemed  to  have  nothing  in  common  with  the  stage. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

IN  the  middle  of  this  tour  I  was  hurried  back  to 
New  York  to  produce  Arthur  Symons'  trans- 
lation of  Hugon  von  Hofifmannsthal's  Electra, 
and  The  Moon  of  Yamato,  an  original  Japanese 
play  of  the  sixteenth  century  translated  by  Comte 
Robert  d'Humiere. 

"Chicago, 
"February,  1908. 
"Darling  Mother, 

"Just  a  line  to  send  you  my  love  and  to  tell  you  that 
I  am  quite  well  again,  but  Stella  has  been  ill. 

"I  am  not  taking  her  on  with  me  for  the  next  seven 
days  of  'one-night  stands.'  I  am  leaving  her  with  a 
dear  old  lady,  Mrs,  Franklyn  Macveagh,  who  has  a 
gorgeous  house  and  loves  Stella,  so  she  will  be  happy,  eat 
well,  and  rest,  and  have  no  end  of  fun. 

"Our  tour  has  been  altered,  I  am  glad  to  say,  after 
these  'one  night  stands.'  I  believe  we  have  three  days 
in  St.  Paul  and  Minneapolis,  and  then  a  season  in 
New  York,  opening  about  7th  February.  I  am  to  play 
both  the  Japanese  and  Greek  heroines.  I  am  very  nerv- 
ous of  the  work.  I  wanted  Stella  to  play  the  Japanese, 
but  the  managers  want  me  to  do  both.  Stella  will  play 
the  sister  in  the  Greek  play.  I  am  afraid  it  will  be  a 
strain,  for  her  voice  is  not  matured  enough,  and  the 
verse  is  difficult. 

"We  gave  a  dinner  party,  or,   rather,   a  supper,   on 

Beo's  'coming  of  age'  birthday  to  twenty-five  people  here, 

287 


288     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

and  many  of  them  brought  their  friends  to  the  dance 
afterwards,  and  every  one  was  very  happy.  Beo  and 
Stella's   power   of   enjoyment   is    extraordinary. 

"Beo  made  a  speech  and  drank  to  his  mother  of 
twenty-one !  Every  one  stood  up  and  toasted  him  on 
his  'sixteenth'  birthday!  I  wish  you  had  been  there, 
dearest. 

"Stella  looked  lovely,  but  a  little  delicate,  the  ex- 
citement of  acting  and  not  eating  regularly.  I  try  my 
best,  but  it  is  hard  to  manage  them. 

"My  love  to  you,  darling.  .  .  . 

"Your  own  loving, 

"Beatrice." 

"Canada. 
"Darling  Mother, 

"Just  one  line  of  love.  I  hope  it  will  get  to  you 
for  Christmas.   .   .   . 

"We  are  all  tired,  but  we  are  all  three  happy.  Beo 
has  chosen  a  difficult  part  in  the  Greek  play.  He  plays 
the  Italian  manservant  in  The  Notorious  Airs.  Ebb- 
smith  beautifully.  Lord  Grey  was  delighted  with  him 
and  with  Stella.  We  had  a  grand  house  in  Ottawa, 
and  Lord  Grey  and  Hanbury  Williams  came  round 
twice,  they  were  so  pleased.  Lady  Grey  wrote  asking 
us  to  luncheon  the  next  day,  but  we  couldn't  go;  we  had 
to  leave  that  night.  We  travelled  from  3  a.  m.  until 
6  p.  m.  and  then  played  The  Notorious  Mrs.  Ebbsmith. 
Think  of  it ! 

"I  told  you  in  my  last  letter  we  are  no  longer  living 
in  the  train;  it  was  too  stuffy.  Next  week  we  have  a 
week's  rest,  no  salary,  and  I  rehearse  Electra  with 
Beo  and  Stella  and  the  new  little  Japanese  play  that  I 
am  going  to  play  with  Electra.  .  .  . 


AN    IMPRESSIONISTIC    PHOTO 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     289 

"Pat's  sister  and  her  husband  and  her  two  children 
spent  a  day  and  night  with  us — these  people  who  thought 
my  going  on  the  stage  a  dreadful  thing,  now  envy  me  and 
the  high  spirits  of  my  children ! 

"The  Reverend  Mother  is  right,  Beo  is  full  of  talent, 
and  I  believe  will  make  a  fine  actor.  He  looks  so  big 
and  strong,  and  has  a  splendid  voice. 

"Write  when  you  can  and  get  all  you  want,  and  be 
comfortable   in   your  little   sitting-room. 

"From  your  own  loving 

"Beatrice." 

I  had  asked  M.  Gabriel  Faure  to  write  the  music 
for  The  Moon  of  Yamato.     He  replied: — 

"I  am  heartbroken  over  the  fact  that  I  am  unable  to  do 
what  you  wish  me  to — I  have  absolutely  no  time  left,  and 
would  not  run  the  risk  of  delaying  your  performance.  I 
am  generally  very  busy,  but  in  addition,  the  Ministry 
has  ordered  me  to  attend  to  a  very  important  Govern- 
ment work,  and  this  is  what  makes  it  utterly  impos- 
sible for  me  to  undertake  a  task  as  pressing  as  the 
one  you  did  me  the  honour  to  ask  me,  and  which  I 
should  have  been  only  too  happy  to  accomplish  for  the 
"never-to-be-forgotten'  'Melisande,'  had  it  only  been 
possible. 

"Believe  me  it  causes  me  true  regret.  . 


»> 


I  had  seen  Electra  in  Germany  at  the  "Kleines 
Theater,"  and  thought  the  German  performance, 
though  excellent  exaggerated  the  horror  with  a  crass, 
brutal  realism. 

Arthur  Symons'  translation,  without  harming  the 


290     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

vivid  realism  of  the  original  play,  put  a  magic  mist 
of  loveliness  upon  it. 

I  am  told  that  Hugo  von  Hoffmannsthal  has  "pre- 
served the  dramatic  dignity,  the  fury  and  passionate 
hatred,  and  the  melting  pathos  of  the  original  play 
as  it  has  been  handed  down  through  the  centuries." 
Though,  according  to  a  lover  of  Greek  tragedy,  Elec- 
tra  played  at  the  Theatre  Frangais  follows  the  Greek 
more  closely,  and  "Orestes"  plays  a  mighty  part, 
which  adds  potently  to  the  effectiveness  of  the  whole. 

"The  scholar  cries  out  for  the   Greek   chorus." 

I  have  seen  the  freakish  effect  of  the  Greek  chorus 
on  the  English  stage;  the  figures  unimpressive,  and 
uninspired,  earnest,  drab,  drear:  a  certain  music, 
but  the  imagination  of  the  artists  not  awake  to  that 
keen  inner  worship  of  truth  and  beauty — the  true 
Greek  feeling. 

I  wanted  very  much  to  play  Professor  Gilbert 
Murray's  beautiful  Electra  of  Euripides.  I  do  not 
remember  quite  what  happened  about  it;  there  were 
words  in  the  contract  to  the  effect  that  I  must  pro- 
duce it  "as  played  at  the  Court  Theatre."  My  spirit 
rebelled — I  wanted  a  free  hand. 

Under  the  discouraging  obstructions  things  really 
worth  while  are  met  with  in  the  theatre,  it  was 
a  difficult  feat  to  bring  frivolous  New  York  to  Elec- 
tra, a  play  so  far  removed  from  themselves. 

The  part  of  "Electra"  is  nearly  as  long  as  "Ham- 
let," with  no  exit  or  "curtain"  until  the  end.     One 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     291 

particularly  touching  speech  of  hers  to  Orestes  and 
his  exclamation:  "O  my  sister!"  never  failed  to 
make  my  heart  ache  and  move  the  audience  to  tears. 

Electra : 

.  .  .  Who  then 
Am  I  that  you  should  cast  such  loving  looks 
Upon   me?     See,    I    am    nothing.     All   I    was 
I  have  had  to  cast  away:  even  that  shame 
Which  is  more  sweet  than  all   things,   and  like  a  mist 
Of   milky   silver    round   about   the    moon 
Is   about  every  woman,    and  wards   off 
Things   evil   from  her  soul  and   her.      My  shame 
I  have  offered  up,  and  I  am  even  as  one 
Fallen   among   thieves,   who   rend   off    from   my  body 
Even  my  last  garment.     Not  without  bridal-night 
Am  I,  as  other  maidens  are;  I  have  felt 
The   pangs    of   child-bearing;   yet   have   brought    forth 
Nothing  into  the  world,  and  I  am  now 
Become  a  prophetess  perpetually. 
And  nothing  has  come  forth  out  of  my  body 
But  curses  and  despair.     I  have  not  slept 
By  night,  I  have  made  my  bed  upon  the  tower, 
Cried  in   the  court,   and  whined  among  the   dogs. 
I   have  been    abhorred,    and  have   seen   everything, 
I  have  seen  everything  as  the  watchman  sees 
Upon  the  tower,  and  day  is  night  and  night 
Is  day  again,  and  I  have  had  no  pleasure 
In  sun  or  stars,  for  all  things  were  to  me 
As  nothing  for  his  sake,  for  all  things  were 
A  token  to  me,  and  every  day  to  me 
A  milestone  on  the  road. 

Orestes  : 

O  my  sister ! 


292     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

How  I  worked!  One  week  to  create  two  roles — 
stage  manage  and  produce,  and  rehearse  Beo  and 
Stella. 

Much  sensitive  anxiety  is  added  to  our  labour,  when 
we  rehearse  those  we  love;  all  producers  know  this. 

I  cabled  to  Lady  Tree,  then  Mrs.  Tree,  to  play 
"Clytemnestra."  She  came  over  from  England  and 
gave  a  fine  performance,  and  looked  splendid. 

This  clever  actress  has  an  odd  waggish  intelligence 
that  does  not  fail  her — even  in  tragedy. 

Stella  was  lovely  as  the  gentle  "Chrysothemis." 

An  interviewer,  the  day  after  the  opening  per- 
formance of  both  plays,  says,  speaking  of  me: — 

"The  woman  is  weary,  weary,  weary — gesture,  voice, 
and  soul — all  overcome  as  by  an  infinite  lassitude."  * 

I  knew  the  work  I  had  done  was  good,  but  my 
rival  was  The  Merry  Widow,  and  in  spite  of  the  fol- 
lowing notice  in  Town  Talk,  alas!  The  Merry 
Widow  won! 

".  .  .  If  the  mantle  of  any  past-mistress  of  the  mi- 
metic art  has  fallen  upon  the  graceful  shoulders  of  Mrs. 
Campbell  it  is  one  that  never  before  did  I  see.  Her 
genius  is  unique;  not  in  method,  not  in  technique  does 
she  excel,  but  in  something;  perhaps  it  is  nothing  more 
than  her  individuality  that  stands  out  distinct  and  all- 
satisfying.  It  would  be  absurd  to  hold  that  she  is  the 
arch-priestess  of  that  academy  of  acting  which  holds  as 

*  I  am  afraid,  in  spite  of  the  happiness  of  having  my  children  with 
me,  and  of  our  success,  I  was  paying  blood-money  so  far  as  my  nervous 
system  was  concerned. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     293 

its  cardinal  principle,  the  utter  eradication  of  the  player's 
personal  identity.  It  is  not  to  be  seriously  argued  that 
the  blend  of  Italian  and  English  blood  in  her  veins  has 
given  her  a  temperament  that  qualifies  her  beyond  all 
her  contemporaries  for  great  artistic  achievement.  Per- 
haps there  are  some  actresses  whom  she  does  not  sur- 
pass in  imagination,  in  ingenuity  of  technique,  or  in 
faculty  of  dramatic  invention;  but  the  fact  is,  she  accom- 
plishes more  with  her  art  than  any  woman  of  whom  I 
have  any  knowledge.  In  the  exuberance  of  my  en- 
thusiasm inspired  of  her  'Electra'  I  seriously  doubt 
whether  there  is  any  other  woman  who  can  hold  an  au- 
dience from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  that  sombre 
tragedy  as  adapted  for  the  modern  stage  by  Hugo  von 
Hoffmannsthal. 

"With  an  art  that  speaks  with  an  electric  shock  she 
keeps  her  audience  as  much  alive  as  she  is  herself. 
How  she  does  it  I  do  not  know.   .   .   . 

".  .  .  .  She  creates,  one  after  another,  illusions  that 
suspend  the  power  of  specific  criticism.  You  see  her 
haunting  eyes  looking  forward  to  a  dreadful  consum- 
mation, and  the  horror  of  the  spectacle  appals  you.  In 
the  subtle  play  of  her  countenance  is  mirrored  emotions 
that  to  you  are  real.  Her  very  anguish  is  infectious.  The 
dignity  of  her  grief  and  resentment  is  so  strong  in  its 
appeal  that  you  find  yourself  in  league  with  her  in  her 
horrible  designs.  Never  does  this  wonderful  woman  in- 
dulge in  that  explosion  of  passion  which  most  actors 
deem  essential  to  the  production  of  the  highest  dramatic 
effects.  Never  does  she  produce  a  harsh  note. 
Smoothly,  without  a  jar,  her  whole  life  seems  to  flow 
into  one  harmonious,  tragic  rhythm  which  is  like  the 
solemn  beat  of  a  dead  march.  ...  It  is  a  stern  picture 
of  implacable  hatred  for  the  living  and  inextinguishable 


294     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

reverence  for  the  dead.     It  is  the  perfection  of  an  art 
that  baffles  criticism  and  analysis." 

Speaking  of  The  Moon  of  Yamato,  one  paper 
said : — 

"The  first  hour  of  the  evening  is  given  to  a  tragedy 
translated  literally  from  the  Japanese  and  acted  in 
imitation  of  the  Japanese  way,  with  Mrs.  Campbell 
bigger  than  any  Japanese  actress,  if  not  greater,  as  she  is 
nearly  six  feet  tall,  while  a  Jap  woman  of  that  stature 
would  be  put  in  a  native  museum  as  a  giantess.  The 
usually  statuesque  beauty  looked  a  curiosity,  anyway, 
with  her  black  hair  coiffured  in  the  mode  of  Tokio,  her 
big  eyes  slanted,  her  habitually  bared  arms  hidden  in 
the  sleeves  of  a  kimono,  and  her  erect  poise  changed  to 
the  hinge-back,  toggle-knee,  grovel  and  kow-tow  manner- 
isms of  'Yum  Yum'  in  The  Mikado.  Not  only  did  she 
mince  and  toddle,  she  spoke  in  a  weak  falsetto  and  cooed 
softly  as  she  trotted  in  and  out  of  her  bamboo  and  paper 
house.  It  was  a  more  faithful  portrayal  of  a  Jap  lady 
than  Blanche  Bates  in  Madam  Butterfly.  For  a  while 
the  audience  was  inclined  to  take  her  in  fun,  and  to  re- 
gard the  unwelcome  wooing  of  a  wife  by  a  terrible 
bandit  as  comedy;  but  it  developed  a  tragedy  fit  to  win  a 
medal  of  originality  for  its  Oriental  author." 

Within  a  fortnight  I  was  ill  from  fatigue  and  for 
two  nights  I  could  not  play. 

Then  I  thought  I  would  like  the  theatrical  pro- 
fession in  New  York  to  see  Electra,  so  I  invited 
them  to  a  matinee. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     295 

A  throng  of  at  least  2,500  people  appeared.  The 
theatre  was  crowded  to  the  last  inch. 

And  so  the  spirit  of  The  Merry  Widow  drove  me 
once  more  ''on  the  road,"  this  time  to  California. 

In  San  Francisco  signs  of  the  great  earthquake 
were  everywhere,  fires  were  still  smouldering- 
Some  stone  pillars,  stone  steps,  a  bit  of  iron  railing, 
a  few  geraniums  and  ferns,  a  great  mountain  of  dust 
and  debris — that  was  once  a  mansion  with  beautiful 
gardens;  so  on  for  miles — as  far  as  the  eye  could 
see. 

I  played  "Electra"  in  a  large,  low,  corrugated- 
iron  building.  For  the  hour  and  three-quarters  the 
audience  sat  breathless — the  play  appealed  to  their 
imagination — and  again  as  so  often  before,  I  was 
overpraised,  spoiled,  petted  and  feted. 

Among  the  many  stories  told  me  about  the  earth- 
quake, one  carries  the  character  of  San  Francisco. 

Immediately  New  York  heard  of  the  catastrophe, 
she  sent  a  long  train  loaded  with  cheap  and  useful 
necessities  of  life.  It  was  sent  back  with  its  goods, 
to  bring  all  the  best  and  finest  luxuries — San  Fran- 
cisco would  accept  no  charity. 

She  started  building  immediately:  many  made 
large  fortunes  by  clearing  away  the  dust. 

A  drunken  man  slept  through  it  all;  when  he 
awoke  and  saw  the  world  flattened  out  and  the  roar- 
ing fires,  he  went  to  bed  again,  thinking  he  was  still 
drunk.  .  .  . 


296     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

And  then  the  story  of  Caruso,  who  lifted  up  his 
head  and  sang  his  highest  note,  to  see  if  his  voice 
was  all  right. 

One  of  my  dearest  friends  lives  near  San  Fran- 
cisco— Mrs.    Harriet   Carolan. 

And  another — Edward  Sheldon* — who  is  loved 
by  many  of  us. 

He  sent  me  cables  and  letters  that  pulled  me 
through  dark  hours,  and,  though  I  do  not  want  to 
anticipate  what  the  years  brought,  I  quote  a  cable 
that  melted  my  heart: 

"Los  Angeles. 
"July,  1919. 
"Stella  dear,  I  love  and  believe  in  you.     Wish  I  was 
there.     Sure  this  cannot  conquer  you.     You  are  so  high 
above  their  reach.     Tenderest  thoughts  and  affection. 

"Ned." 

And  a  letter: 

"Los  Angeles. 
"August  30th,  1 9 19. 
"Stella  dear, 

"Your  letter  has  just  come.  ...  I  wish  courage  and 
wisdom  could  keep  you  from  suffering.  I  know  they 
can't,  but  they  will  carry  you  through  it,  anyway.  .  .  . 
Time  usually  brings  out  the  truth,  and  I  imagine  that  is 
what  you  want.  Your  bewilderment  comes  from  not 
being  able  to  see  it  now.  ...  I  know  you  hate  to  walk 
in  darkness,  but  you  won't  for  long.     One  thing  I  am 

♦Dramatic    author:    Romance,    Salvation    Nell,    and    other    successful 
plays. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     297 

sure  of,  you  have  made  no  mistake  in  keeping  your  ideals 
high  as  the  stars.  Even  what  you  are  going  through 
now  wouldn't  bring  you  as  much  suffering  as  trying  to 
lower  them.  That  is  the  sort  of  person  you  are,  and 
you  can  never  change,  thank  God! 

"Ned." 

But  to  go  back  to  Electra. 

The  great  Modjeska  saw  Electra  in  Los  Angeles. 
She  wrote  to  me  afterwards: 

"Orange  Co. 

"Saturday. 
"Dear  Mrs.  Campbell — ^beautiful  'Electra,' 

"I  saw  the  play  this  afternoon,  but  could  not  call  on 
you  after  the  performance,  because  I  came  to  Los  An- 
geles without  my  husband  and  had  to  catch  the  train 
in  time  for  dinner.  What  a  prosaic  thing  to  speak  about 
— trains  and  dinners,  after  having  seen  what  I  have 
seen. 

"What  a  tremendous  part,  and  what  a  wonderful 
achievement!  I  am  so  happy  to  have  seen  it,  because 
that  thing  will  live  with  me.  I  never  shall  forget  the 
moments  of  real  artistic  delight  that  came  to  my  share 
this  afternoon,  and  I  want  to  thank  you  for  it.  Your 
'Electra'  is  beautiful  and  most  impressive  in  all  details, 
and  I  do  not  know  any  one  who  could  play  this  part  as 
you  play  it.  Every  pose,  every  modification  of  voice 
was  perfect,  but,  what  was  most  wonderful,  the  feeling, 
the  passion,  your  own  self  animating  that  classic  per- 
sonage and  making  it  a  real — a  living — suffering  crea- 
ture. But  I  must  stop  in  fear  of  writing  too  much.  I 
know  how  tired  you  must  be  playing  every  night  and 
Saturday  matinees,   and  travel,  too. 


298     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

"The  Japanese  play  was  charming,  and  your  daughter 
very  sweet  in  her  part.* 

*'I  was  sorry  not  to  be  able  to  say  'good-bye'  to  you 
both,  but  I  hope  to  meet  you  again  some  day. 

"In  the  meantime  I  will  say  'au  revoir'  and  'bon 
voyage.' 

"With   affectionate   admiration, 
"Yours  always, 

"Helen  Modjeska." 

In  January,  1908, 1  heard  from  my  mother  that  she 
had  been  very  ill. 

".  .  .  .  I  am  still  in  bed,  but  out  of  danger.  I 
require  to  be  very  careful  to.  get  strong.  There  is  very 
little  cough  left.  The  night  before  the  nurse  came  the 
Reverend  Mother  sat  up  all  night  in  my  room.  She  is  a 
perfect   angel!"   .   .   . 

I  was  very  anxious  to  get  back  to  England. 

In  March,  Stella  was  sent  for  by  Sir  George  Alex- 
ander— Sir  Arthur  Pinero  wanted  her  for  his  play, 
The  Thunderbolt,  at  the  St.  James's  Theatre — she 
had  done  splendidly  in  America,  and  I  felt,  with 
Sir  Arthur's  help,  she  would  make  a  success  in  Lon- 
don. 

I  wrote  from  Chicago  to  Mother: 

"I  have  just  had  your  sad  little  letter,  darling.  I  am 
afraid  you  are  not  nearly  well  yet,  and  I  feel  very  anx- 

*  Stella  had  bravely  taken  up  my  part,  as  the  work  was  too  hard  for 
me. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     299 

ious.  ...  I  will  be  home,  I  think,  in  about  five  weeks. 
It  will  break  my  heart  if  I  don't  find  you  quite  strong. 

"I  hope  Stella  has  seen  you. 

"The  air  in  California — the  flowers  and  the  birds — 
and  the  palm  trees !  How  I  wished  all  the  time,  dearest, 
you  could  have  enjoyed  them,  too.  The  people  were 
wonderful  to  me.   .   .   . 

"And  now  a  secret.  Beo  has  fallen  in  love  with  a  very 
beautiful  young  girl,  charming  in  every  way.  I  send  you 
her  little  note  to  me,  which  will  show  you  what  a  darling, 
happy  thing  she  is.     She  is  very  fair  and  tall. 

"The  question  is,  what  is  to  be  done?  They  want  to 
marry.  Her  people  haven't  much  money.  I  say  noth- 
ing; he  is  so  proud  and  happy,  I  am  afraid  of  interfer- 
ing. She  is  in  Chicago,  and  he  will  see  her  on  our  way 
back.   .   .   . 

"I  will  write  again.  In  the  meantime  get  well,  dear- 
est. 

"Your  own  loving 
"Beatrice." 


On  my  return  from  America  I  found  my  mother 
very  fragile.  I  had  not  realised  how  ill  she  had 
been. 

In  July  she  died  .  .  .  and  the  world  was  differ- 
ent— there  was  no  one  left  to  call  me  "child"  any 
more. 

In  death  she  looked  a  marble  figure  of  a  lovely 
girl;  her  black  hair  scarcely  tinged  with  grey,  in 
two  plaits  around  her  head. 

My  beautiful  Italian  mother! 

My  children  loved  her  tenderly,  and  gratefully. 


300     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

My  brothers  and  sisters  loved  her  too,  but  I  know 
I  set  her  highest.  .  .  . 

''You  are  brave,  darley,  and  you  work  so  hard." 
That  was  always  her  praise  of  me.  .  .  . 

Once — how  many  years  ago? — she  said  to  me: 
"Some  people  have  white  blood,  some  people  have 
red — yours  is  red!" 

I  remembered  those  words  long  afterwards  when 
callousness  stunned  me. 

I  have  so  many  very  obvious  faults.  Why  did  my 
mother  never  censure  me?  I  often  ask  myself  that 
question. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

SIR  Arthur  Pinero's  fine  play  The  Thunder- 
bolt had  been  a  great  success  in  London,  and 
Sir  George  and  Sir  Arthur  allowed  me  later 
to  take  it  on  tour  for  Stella,  who  had  played  her  part 
with  much  charm;  it  was  a  sensitive  bit  of  work 
and  I  was  very  proud  of  her. 

In  November,  1908,  at  the  New  Theatre,  I  gave 
a  series  of  matinees  of  Hofifmannsthal's  Electra  and 
Mr.  W.  B.  Yeats'  lovely  Deirdre. 

I  remember  hearing  that  Sir  Charles  Wyndham 
and  Miss  Mary  Moore  surreptitiously  watched  me 
from  a  box  conducting  a  rehearsal,  and  for  the  first 
time,  I  believe,  credited  me  with  some  good  sense. 

The  delicate  beauty  of  Deirdre  delighted  the 
audience,  and  the  wild,  vivid,  passionate  tragedy  of 
Electra  also  caught  hold  of  them. 

Mr.  W.  Archer  headed  his  review  of  these  plays, 
**A  New  Actress,"  and  with  some  condescension,  re- 
marked : — 

"Mrs.  Campbell  has  an  imagination  which  requires 
the  magic  spark  of  poetry  to  kindle  it  to  a  creative  glow. 
...  It  is  hard  to  imagine  her  after  such  performances 
as  these,  relapsing  to  the  mannered  prettinesses — the 
adroit  evasions  which  have  so  often  been  her  standby  in 
the  past.   .   .  ." 

301 


302     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

The  Times  wrote  with  more  sympathy: — 

".  .  .  Much  playgoing,  it  may  be,  makes  one  callous, 
but  it  will  be  long  before  we  shall  think  without  a  shudder 
of  the  'Electra'  we  saw  yesterday  ...  a  festered  lily 
— something  less  than  a  woman,  because  it  is  the  wreck 
of  what  has  been  more  than  most  women.   ..." 

But  reviews  had  lost  their  interest  for  me  now 
that  my  mother  and  my  uncle  were  no  longer  in 
this  world.  .  .  . 

After  these  matinees  I  went  on  a  tour  in  the  Eng- 
lish provinces  with  Deirdre  and  Electra,  and  I 
remember  at  Southport  there  was  a  fearsome  oc- 
currence. 

In  Electra  towards  the  end  of  the  play,  when, 
holding  a  lighted  torch  above  her  head,  Electra  is 
waiting  for  the  death  cry  of  Agamemnon — the 
lighted  methylated  spirit  fell  from  the  torch  on  to 
my  hair — the  scene  was  very  dark — a  member  of  my 
company,  who  was  sitting  in  the  front  of  the  house, 
said  the  little  flames  dancing  about  my  head  made 
me  look  like  a  Christmas  pudding! 

As  I  endeavoured  to  put  them  out  with  my  hands, 
they  trickled  down  my  face  and  arms,  the  audience 
stood  up,  and  among  the  excited  murmurs  a  woman 
shrieked:  "Will  no  man  save  her!"  This  struck  me 
as  ludicrous,  and  I  laughed. 

The  actors  standing  in  the  "wings,"  ready  to  rush 
on,  seeing  me  smile,  kept  back:  coming  down  to  the 
footlights,  I  said:     "Please  sit  down,  this  stuff  does 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     303 

not  hurt."  By  that  time  the  flames  were  out — my 
hands  were  slightly  scorched  and  a  little  of  my  hair 
was  burned. 

On  the  19th  January,  1909,  I  played  at  the  Vaude- 
ville Theatre,  under  Messrs.  Gatti's  management, 
Olive  Latimer's  Husband,  by  Mr.  Rudolph  Besier. 
Olive  was  a  gentle,  tender  lady  with  a  dying  hus- 
band upstairs,  who  never  appeared  in  the  play 

As  I  recollect  it,  the  lady  is  in  love  with  the  doc- 
tor, and  her  love  is  returned — the  husband  dies — 
her  heart  breaks,  and  love  is  over.  It  was  treated 
simply,  realistically,  and  was  very  moving. 

I  remember  Lord  Ribblcsdale  liking  the  play  very 
much;  and  a  delightful  letter  I  had  from  Miss 
Rosina  Filippi,  which  unhappily  is  lost. 

At  home,  my  son  was  fretting  for  the  lovely  girl 
he  had  left  in  Chicago,  and  I  was  troubled  about 
him. 

One  night,  after  an  especially  long  talk  we  had, 
I  went  to  his  room  and  sat  on  his  bed — his  eyes  were 
full  of  affection  for  me,  and  love  and  yearning  for 
beautiful  Helen;  it  was  more  than  I  could  bear.  I 
said,  "Perhaps  I  could  furnish  you  a  little  flat  with 
some  of  the  things  from  here,  and  make  you  an  allow- 
ance for  a  year — you  would  have  to  work  hard,  ever 
so  hard — American  girls  only  look  up  to  men  who 
work  for  them,  and  provide  for  them  well;  and  for 
their  children.     I  kissed  him  and  went  back  to  bed. 

In  the  morning  early  he  came  to  my  room,  with 


304     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

a  smile — "Was  it  really  you,  mother,  who  spoke  to 
me  last  night,  or  was  it  an  angel  who  sat  on  my 
bed?" 

That  day  he  cabled  to  Chicago  that  he  would 
come.  Before  he  sailed,  a  letter  arrived  from  the 
American  father,  saying  he  could  not  let  his  girl 
marry  on  such  conditions 

Beo  only  laughed  and,  full  of  hope,  sailed  away. 

Within  a  fortnight  came  a  cable,  "Marry  on  the 
25th,  mind  you  don't  get  a  stuffy  flat,  loving  Beo." 

Stella  and  I  set  to,  and  we  worked  hard.  Every- 
thing that  could  be  spared  from  our  little  house  we 
carried  into  the  small  flat  we  had  found  for  them 
on  the  other  side  of  Kensington  Square. 

And  they  came — he,  full  of  pride — she,  all  loveli- 
ness and  charm.  Her  delightful  manners,  and  witty 
way  of  expressing  herself  won  the  heart  instantly: 
and  then  there  were  her  pretty  clothes,  her  freshness 
and  gaiety,  making  Kensington  Square  a  garden 
of  flowers. 

*»!».  jIl  jAi  •11 

Tff  Tfr  ^  Tff 

In  July,  1909,  I  produced  His  Borrowed  Plumes, 
by  Mrs.  George  Cornwallis  West.* 

Jenny,  at  a  luncheon  party,  told  me  that  a  London 
manager  had  said  he  would  produce  the  play  for  her 
for  three  hundred  pounds. 

She  read  the  play  to  me.  It  had  certain  points 
of  cleverness,  and  I  considered  that,  with  ingenious 

*Lady  Randolph   Churchill. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     305 

production  and  good  actors,  it  could  be  pulled  to- 
gether, and  perhaps  made  into  a  success. 

Feeling  it  would  be  a  friendly  act  and  an  amus- 
ing piece  of  work  for  me,  I  offered  to  produce  it  for 
her. 

So  it  was  eventually  arranged. 

After  all,  good  plays  only  too  often  meet  with  a 
fortnight's  run,  and  splendid  plays,  such  as  Hedda 
Gabler,  Electra,  Pelleas  and  Melisande,  Beyond 
Human  Power,  and  Deirdre,  with  a  few  special  ma- 
tinees; perhaps  His  Borrowed  Plumes  might  attract 
the  public. 

An  exaggerated  importance  gradually  grew 
around  the  production,  owing  to  Royalty  and  many 
distinguished  people  being  interested  in  it. 

Serious  work  became  difficult — but  was  most  nec- 
essary to  hold  the  play  together — some  of  the  ac- 
tors started  calling  the  play  "Sorrowing  Blooms" — 
a  dangerous  sign. 

Jenny,  I  fancy,  imagined  producing  her  play 
would  be  of  some  social  advantage  to  all  of  us:  I 
was  intolerant  of  what  I  thought  nonsense,  and 
showed  it  quickly. 

At  the  first  performance  everybody  who  was  any- 
body, and  who  could  procure  a  seat,  was  present. 

The  critics  enjoyed  themselves,  the  applause  was 
of  the  heartiest,  the  play  was  looked  upon  as 
clever. 

Mr.  Waikley,  in  The  Times,  was  nice  about  me 
and  funny  about  hats : — 


3o6     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

"When  mundane  ladies — if  the  Gallicism  may  pass — 
when  mundane  ladies  produce  original  modern  comedies 
out  of  their  own  original  modern  and  quite  charming 
heads,  all  the  other  mundane  ladies  who  have  written 
original  modern  comedies  themselves,  or  might  have 
done  so  if  they  had  chosen,  or  are  intending  to  do  so 
the  very  next  wet  afternoon,  come  and  look  on.  These 
are  the  occasions  that  reconcile  one  to  the  theatre.  For 
a  sudden  feminine  glory  invades  it  and  transfigures  it, 
so  that  it  becomes  an  exhibition  of  beauty  and  elegance; 
the  very  latest  dialogue  on  the  stage  is  accompanied  by 
a  frou-froM  of  the  very  latest  Paris  fashions  in  the 
stalls.  An  especially  pleasing  detail  is  the  air  of  sweet 
resignation — is  it  the  firm  composure  of  the  martyr  or 
the  serene  smile  of  the  seraph? — with  which  the  ladies 
remove  the  wide-brimmed  and  very  high-crowned  hats 
of  the  present  fashion  from  their  heads  and  pose  them 
very  delicately  upon  their  knees.  It  is  with  an  effort 
you  divert  your  gaze  from  this  fascinating  spectacle  to 
the  proceedings  on  the  stage.  But  this  is  only  to  ex- 
change one  pleasure  for  another  of  the  same  sort.  For 
on  the  stage  you  have  a  bevy  of  ladies  supporting — 
beautiful  caryatides  that  they  are! — the  same  remark- 
able hats,  with  the  privilege  of  not  having  to  remove 
them.  In  the  presence  of  so  many  and  so  beautifully 
complicated  hats  it  is,  of  course,  impossible  to  think  of 
them  as  mere  coverings  for  the  human  head.  They 
really  fulfil  the  important  office  of  creating  an  illusion 
about  life,  like  the  poetry  of  Shelley  or  the  music  of  De- 
bussey.  With  their  exaggerated  brims  and  monstrous 
crowns  they  completely  shut  out  the  dull,  the  work-a-day, 
and  the  disagreeable.  Everything  you  feel  is  for  the 
best  and  looking  its  best,  and  wearing  its  best  in  the  best 
of  all  Directoire  worlds. 


ON   ONE   OF   HER   LATER   TOURS    TO   AMERICA 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     307 

"And  yet,  by  a  sort  of  paradox,  what  was  perhaps  the 
most  beautiful  thing,  what  was  certainly  the  most  suave 
and  distinguished  thing  in  the  Hicks'  Theatre  yesterday 
afternoon — we  mean,  of  course,  Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell 
— wore  no  hat.  .  .  ." 


Then  in  the  unexpected  way  things  sometimes 
happen  in  this  world,  George  Cornwallis  West  was 
seriously  attracted  by  me.  .  .  . 

I  believed  his  life  was  unhappy,  and  warmly  gave 
him  my  friendship  and  afifection.  .  .  . 

This  caused  gossip,  misjudgment,  and  pain,  that 
cannot  be  gone  into  here. 

In  September,  1909,  I  played  in  a  sadly  cut  play 
of  M.  Brieux,  False  Gods,  at  his  Majesty's  Theatre. 

I  was  curiously  uncomfortable  in  my  work  in  this 
theatre:  a  disturbing  mixture  of  domesticity  and 
art,  of  Society  and  Bohemia,  of  conventionality,  and 
vagary — irritated  me. 

Besides,  I  always  felt  the  polite  thing  to  do  would 
be  to  give  up  my  part  to  Lady  Tree. 

Sir  Herbert  Tree,  in  my  opinion,  was  the  best 
character  comedian  of  his  day.  His  slightly  foreign 
manner,  distinction  and  elegance,  and  fantastic  grace, 
gave  an  arresting  charm  to  his  work. 

In  jeune  premier  parts,  I  thought  him  tiresome;  in 
tragedy  insincere;  and  his  "Hamlet"  wearied  me  in 
its  self-obsession;  though  full  of  picturesque  grace. 

He  was  a  most  lavish  producer  and  a  splendid 
"showman." 


3o8     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

There  was  a  strange  want  of  sequential  significance 
in  his  acting,  and  in  himself,  a  manner  of  not  unfas- 
cinating  preoccupation. 

His  method  on  the  stage  was  for  "flashes."  He 
loved  his  profession  deeply,  and  independently  of  his 
own  success:  his  friendliness,  enthusiasm,  and  above 
all  his  warm  hospitality  are  a  household  word;  and 
he  had  culture,  wit,  and  imagination. 

His  saddest  mood  could  be  charmed  away  in  a 
moment  by  a  witty  or  funny  remark.  He  hated  ill- 
manners  and  ugliness — youth  and  beauty  led  him  like 
a  lamb. 

When  his  feelings  were  hurt  he  blushed  and  looked 
bewildered,  which  was  extraordinarily  attractive. 

The  gods  were  good  to  him;  he  died  unexpectedly 
in  a  moment,  and  many  were  left  to  mourn. 

After  False  Gods,  which  was  not  a  success,  Bee- 
thoven was  produced.  With  it  I  played  Expiation, 
a  play  rehearsed  to  precede  Beethoven,  but  on  the 
opening  night  Sir  Herbert  had  decided  that  it  should 
come  last. 

Following  the  death  of  "Beethoven"  and  the 
great  Symphony,  a  Russian  spy  story  was  impos- 
sible. 

I  was  told  that  Tree  not  only  made  his  speech,  but 
that  the  orchestra  played  "God  Save  the  King,"  and 
the  critics  and  most  of  the  audience  left  the  theatre 
before  my  one-act  play  commenced!  Let  us  hope 
this  story  is  an  exaggeration. 

In  1910  I  went  to  America  again.     I  had  no  en- 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     309 

gagement;  only  a  strong  desire  to  get  away  from 
England — and  gossip.  .  .  . 

And,  as  usual,  money  had  to  be  made. 

I  was  full  of  anxiety  over  my  Stella,  too;  she 
had  made  up  her  mind  to  marry  a  man  I  scarcely 
knew,  who  had  lived  in  Africa  for  many  years. 
Stella  was  so  sure  she  was  doing  right  in  giving  up 
her  profession  and  life  and  friends  in  England  that, 
in  my  anxiety  for  her  happiness,  I  appeared  wanting 
in  loving  sympathy. 

On  a  Saturday  I  decided  to  sail  for  America,  and 
on  the  Wednesday  I  had  left  Kensington  Square, 
with  Helen,  Stella,  and  Beo  in  charge. 

On  my  arrival  in  New  York  I  telephoned  to  Mr. 
Norman  Hapgood,  saying:  "Here  I  am.  I  have 
quite  a  good  one-act  play  and  a  lovely  frock,  and  I 
would  be  glad  of  a  vaudeville  engagement.  What 
shall  I  do?" 

He  said :  "Ring  up  Albee,  the  head  of  the  Vaude- 
ville circuit." 

I  rang  up  Mr.  Albee,  who  made  an  appointment 
with  me. 

Mr.  Albee — one  of  those  American  men  who  make 
you  feel  "you  are  all  right"  and  "he  is  all  right" — 
saw  me,  and  I  told  him  I  had  an  effective  play,  Ex- 
piation, and  a  beautiful  dress,  that  I  would  play 
twice  a  day,  and  I  wanted  £500  a  week — a  large  sal- 
ary, but  I  knew  well  I  would  never  be  able  to  play 
twice  a  day  and  travel  on  Sundays  for  any  length  of 
time. 


310     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

Some  other  men  came  into  the  room  during  my 
interview  with  Mr.  Albee,  and  they  consulted  to- 
gether. Eventually  it  was  decided  that  I  should 
play  for  a  week  outside  New  York,  and  if  I  proved 
worth  it,  they  would  engage  me  at  the  £500  a  week 
for  ten  weeks. 

I  played,  and  they  were  satisfied. 

In  the  meantime  Stella  was  engaged  by  the  late 
Mr.  Harry  Irving  as  his  leading  lady  in  London. 

After  a  few  weeks,  first  Beo  and  then  Helen  joined 
me  in  America,  and  we  three  travelled  together. 

Oh,  those  two  performances  of  Expiation!  I 
had  to  kill  a  man  twice  a  day  and  shriek — and  it  had 
to  be  done  from  the  heart — the  Americans  see 
through  ''blufif" — and  I  was  advertised  as  a  "Great 
tragic  actress"! 

Later  on,  Helen  and  Beo  went  to  her  people  in 
Chicago,  and  I  continued  the  tour  alone. 

One  day — I  forget  in  which  town — it  was  time  to 
get  up  and  think  about  the  morning  performance. 
I  found  I  was  unable  to  make  any  effort  to  move. 
My  maid  rang  the  telephone  for  the  Hotel  doctor — I 
tried  to  speak;  it  was  impossible,  I  could  only  cry. 
"No  more  acting;  away  to  Canada,  to  St.  Agathe  des 
Montes,  and  stay  there  until  your  nerves  are 
mended,"  said  the  doctor. 

And  I  went,  and  there  I  remained  alone,  unutter- 
ably sad — walking  about  that  lovely  place.  Can- 
aries— sand — glorious  sunsets — no  paths,  planks  of 
wood' — fields  of   large  white   daises   with   millions 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     311 

of  fireflies — flat  patches  of  water  reflecting  the 
sky.  .  .  . 

After  ten  weeks'  rest  I  was  well.  I  joined  Helen 
and  Beo  in  Chicago,  and  produced  a  little  one-act 
play  of  Beo's  The  Ambassador  s  Wife.  It  was  quite 
a  success  in  its  way,  and  gave  them  both  great  en- 
couragement. 

I  then  received  a  cable  from  Mr.  Gesier  asking 
me  to  act  in  his  play  Lady  Patricia.  I  arrived  in 
London  the  day  before  the  first  rehearsal,  leaving 
Beo  and  Helen  in  Chicago. 

Lady  Patricia  was  produced  at  the  Haymarket  on 
22nd  March,  191 1.  Mr.  E.  Lyall  Sweete — my  old 
friend  of  Mrs.  Bandmann  Palmer  days — was  re- 
sponsible for  the  production  of  this  brilliant  comedy. 
After  the  first  night,  he  sent  me  the  following  letter : 

"Garrick  Club,  W.  C, 
"23rd  March,  191 1. 
"Wonderful.  There  is  nothing  left  on  that  score 
for  me  to  say.  The  papers  have  said  it  all  with  one 
unanimous  shout  of  delight.  Oh,  but  I  knew  they  would. 
But  for  the  rest,  how  can  I  thank  you  enough  for  suffer- 
ing a  fool  so  gladly.  .  .  . 

"All  my  congratulations  on  a  great  achievement — not 
greater  than  I  knew  it  would  be,  but  greater  than  you 
would  allow  it  might  be.  All  my  gratitude  for  your 
forbearance,  your  patience  and  help — invaluable  in  sug- 
gestion or  personal  embellishment  and  my  devotion. 

"T.  S.  .  .  ." 

In  the  early  part  of  this  year  Stella  went  away  to 


312     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

Africa  to  get  married.  I  could  not  refuse  my  consent 
to  her  marriage  any  longer* — my  lovely  sensitive 
girl.  .  .  . 

I  understood  at  last  the  cry  my  mother  gave  28 
years  before. 

Amongst  my  papers  I  find  this  little  letter  from 
Beo  whom  I  had  left  in  America  with  Helen,  written 
to  Stella:— 

"24th  February,  191 1. 
"Darling  Stella, 

"Just  a  line  to  ask  you  to  let  me  know  exactly  when 
you  sail  for  Nairobi.  I  hope  to  goodness  Helen  and  I 
can  get  back  to  England  at  least  to  say  'good-bye,'  and 
'good  luck  and  happiness.' 

"I'm  just  beginning  to  realise,  old  girl,  now  you're 
going,  how  much  I  love  you,  and  how  much  I  shall  miss 
you. 

"I  went  to  the  Zoo  yesterday  and  looked  up  all  the 
animals  that  live  in  Nairobi. 

"Be  very  careful  of  the  Ihtzpmzzes,  they  are  nasty 
creatures,  and  don't  get  bitten  under  the  eyelids  by  the 
Hpittopotohhozsh. 

"Write  me  a  line. 

"Love  from  Helen, 

"Your  loving  brother, 

"Beg." 

In  September  I  went  to  New  York  again,  very 
thankful  to  be  out  of  England.  .  .  . 

I  played  La  Vierge  Folle,  translated  by  Mr.  Ru- 
dolf Besier  from  the  French  of  M.  Henri  Bataille. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     313 

At  Mr.  Frohman's  request  the  play  was  much  al- 
tered; the  religious  argument  being  entirely  eradi- 
cated, thereby  making  it  simply  a  story  of  a  wife 
chasing  a  husband,  who  was  enjoying  life  away  from 
her  with  a  "foolish  virgin." 

At  the  end  of  the  play  the  poor  girl,  overhearing 
the  wife's  appeal  to  the  husband,  shoots  herself. 

In  the  French  it  is  a  fine  play;  the  religious  argu- 
ment against  the  wilful  destruction  of  the  virgin 
soul,  and  the  wife's  belief  in  her  duty  to  be  of  spirit- 
ual help  to  her  husband,  give  dignity  and  some  ex- 
cuse to  the  ugliness  of  the  story. 

The  Americans  disliked  the  play  intensely. 

I  was  back  in  England  again  within  four  months. 
Bella  Donna  was  sent  to  me  from  the  St.  James's 
Theatre  to  read.  I  did  not  care  for  the  play,  or  the 
part,  and  refused  it. 

About  this  time  Helen  wrote  to  me  from  America, 
begging  me  to  let  her  and  Beo  return  to  Kensington 
'Square.  I  was  delighted  to  send  for  them,  for  I 
was  very  lonely  there. 

Again  Sir  George  Alexander  scut  me  Bella  Donna. 
This  time  I  accepted  the  part. 

On  December  9th,  191 1,  Bella  Donna  was  pro- 
duced at  the  St.  James's  Theatre. 

The  smart  world  was  interested,  and  the  play  made 
a  small  fortune. 

One  night  during  the  run  of  this  play,  I  was  driv- 
ing to  the  St.  James's  Theatre;  a  boy  on  a  bicycle 


314     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

coming  into  the  main  road  from  Rutland  Gate  ran 
into  my  taxi.  My  taxi  swerved  to  get  out  of  the 
way  and  smashed  into  another  taxi. 

My  head  went  through  the  window  opposite  me — 
I  saw  stars — my  hatpin  broke  in  two.  Someone 
picked  up  the  boy  and  took  him  to  St.  George's 
Hospital.  I  hailed  another  taxi  and  drove  on  to 
the  theatre. 

My  faithful  Julia  said  "What  is  the  matter,  Ma- 
dam, you  look  so  funny?"  "I  have  been  bumped 
about  in  a  taxi" — but  she  had  gone  out  of  the  room. 
In  a  few  moments  George  Alexander  came  in.  I 
told  him  I  was  all  right  and  I  was  going  to  play. 
He  told  me  to  look  in  the  glass.  I  looked,  and  the 
top  of  my  head  resembled  Ally  Sloper's! 

Sir  George  sent  for  a  doctor,  who  ordered  me 
home  at  once;  and  said  ice  bags  were  to  be  put  on 
my  head  all  night.  The  skin  was  not  broken,  the 
haemorrhage  was  internal.  I  was  begged  not  to 
talk;  but  I  was  quite  incapable  of  stopping. 

Little  tiny  threads  of  cotton  seemed  to  be  pulling 
my  head  up  into  the  air. 

Next  day  and  for  some  days  afterwards  my  face 
was  black  and  blue,  and  my  eyes  were  imperceptible. 

Within  a  fortnight,  though  still  ill,  I  was  per- 
suaded by  my  friends.  Sir  Edward  and  Lady  Stracey, 
to  go  with  them  by  boat  and  motor  to  Aix.  The 
doctor  there  said  hot  baths  would  soothe  my  stifif 
body  and  do  me  good.  On  the  contrary,  after  a 
week  they  made  me  very  ill. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     315 

A  cable  came  from  America  offering  me  a  fine 
tour  with  a  one-act  play  of  Sir  James  Barrie's.  I 
hurried  home.  The  night  I  arrived  my  son  had  come 
up  from  the  country  to  see  me — Beo  and  Helen  had 
been  living  away  from  London;  he  was  busy  writing 
his  play,  The  Dust  of  Egypt — Gerald  du  Maurier 
produced  it  later  at  Wyndham's  Theatre  with  suc- 
cess— he  looked  into  my  face  and  said,  "Mother,  you 
are  ill ;  I'm  going  to  sleep  here."  I  went  to  bed — he 
sent  for  his  wife.  How  glad  I  was  to  have  them 
with  me! 

I  was  in  bed  for  over  six  months  in  one  position. 
It  was  nearly  nine  months  before  I  could  walk. 
People  said  I  was  "blind"  "paralysed  by  the  taxi 
accident";  and  the  papers  said  I  was  "sinking  fast." 
I  believe  nine  doctors  were  consulted;  I  used  to 
hear  them  talking  in  the  room  below  me. 

But  my  mind  possessed  one  feeling  only,  that 
I  need  not  trouble  about  anything  any  more — even 
to  lift  my  eyelids  or  move  my  hand.  I  had  no 
sense  of  time;  only  a  glorious  sense  of  peace. 

There  were  whispers  of  "brain";  candles  used  to 
be  held  in  front  of  me,  and  my  eyelids  lifted  up.  My 
body  was  the  nearest  thing  to  death  that  life  can 
hold.  My  living  mind  grasped  the  utter  futility 
and  weariness  of  all  this  business  of  life,  and  I 
dwelt  upon  the  ineffable  quiet  of  death. 

At  first  only  when  my  son  or  his  wife  was  in  the 
room,  or  a  friend  with  a  frightened  face,  was  I  able 
to  make  an  effort  and  pull  myself  together — 


3i6     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

33,  Kensington  Square — a  little  Queen  Anne 
house,  white  panelled  within,  clean,  austere  almost — 
where  my  children  had  grown  up — there  I  lay, 
month  after  month. 

Outside  they  placed  straw  halfway  round  the 
Square  to  drown  the  noise  of  the  carriages  that 
later  brought  friends,  and  many  distinguished  people 
anxious  to  see  me,  and  help  me  if  they  could. 

Some  sat  by  my  bed  and  told  me  stories  to  amuse 
me.  From  my  sick-bed  I  looked  upon  them  with  de- 
spair. How  could  these  things  matter,  how  could 
people  be  amused  by  them? 

I  remember  the  day  my  devoted  and  beautiful 
daughter-in-law  put  her  head  round  the  screen  of 
my  bed,  and  whispered,  as  though  she  could  hardly 
believe  the  good  news,  "You  are  going  to  live!"  I 
had  not  seen  her  for  many  hours. 

To  her  it  seemed  such  happy  news;  It  only  made 
me  wretched.  I  should  have  to  stand  up  again, 
face  that  looking-glass,  think  what  hat  I  should  put 
on,  worry  about  George's  afifairs — there  was  talk 
of  bankruptcy  and  divorce — go  to  the  theatre  every 
night  and  act.  I  should  have  to  pick  up  the  sense- 
less things  of  life  and  go  on  with  my  ''career." 
Why?  what  for? — and  there  would  be  ail  the  bills 
for  this  illness  to  be  faced. 

The  old  morbidity  that  had  been  my  life-long 
enemy  had  got  hold  of  me,  and  just  to  slip  into 
my  bed  and  out  of  the  world  seemed  a  splendid 
escape.     I    closed   my   eyes,   and    for   some   weeks 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     317 

made   no   fight  of   any  kind — coward   that  I   was. 

The  following  few  letters  express  the  concern  and 
affection  my  friends  and  others  felt  for  me. 

The  late  Lady  Savile  wrote: 

"12,  Charles  Street. 
**I  did  so  love  getting  your  letter.  ...  It  makes  me 
so  miserable  to  think  of  your  being  ill — I  love  to  think  of 
you  as  always  well  and  happy  and  prosperous. 

"I  am  getting  on  slowly.  I  still  have  terrible  nights 
of  pain,  but  it  must  take  time  to  wear  off,  and  one  must 
be  patient.  The  moment  you  can  see  me  and  I  am  al- 
lowed to  go  out  I  shall  arrive  with  two  able-bodied  men 
to  carry  me  up  to  you.  At  present  the  doctor  won't  let 
me  leave  my  room;  so  tiresome. 
"Dearest  love. 

"Your  loving 

"Violet." 

The  day  came,  when  I  asked  why  there  were  no 
flowers  or  letters  from  Violet — they  did  not  like  to 
answer  me — she  was  dead. 

Her  daughter,  Dorothy,  wrote: 

"My  darling  Stella, 

"Thank  you  with  all  my  heart  for  your  dear,  dear 
words  of  comfort.  She  loved  you  and  I  know  you  loved 
her.  She  was  thinking  of  you  all  the  time,  and  longing 
to  make  you  well. 

"Please  take  great  care  of  yourself.  .  .  .  You  were 
such  a  help  to  her  and  made  such  happy  hours  for  her. 

"Your  loving 
"Dorothy." 


3i8    MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

"Aunt  Madeline"  was  ill  and  could  only  come 
once  to  see  me. 

"December  7th,  19 12. 
"Dearest,   dearest  Beatrice, 

"What  a  broken  reed  am  I,  not  to  be  able  to  come  to 
you  when  you  are  ill  and  call  for  me  in  your  sick- 
ness.  .   .   . 

"I  have  had  to  stay  in  bed  with  a  bronchial  cold, 
and  have  not  been  out  of  my  room.  It  is  a  real  heart 
sorrow  to  me  not  to  be  able  to  come  to  you  now, 
to-day. 

"All  this  past  week  I  have  been  thinking  of  you  and 
wondering  and  wondering  what  you  were  deciding  on 
with  the  doctors,  and  praying  that  all  would  be  and  go 
well  with  your  decisions. 

"I  was  so  struck  with  your  calmness  and  braveness 
when  you  talked  with  me  that  day  I  saw  you,  but  I 
don't  want  you  to  have  to  be  calm  and  brave.  I  want  you 
to  be  well  and  strong  and  happy.  You  have  been  such 
a  faithful,  loving  friend  to  me  ever  since  we  first  met. 
You  have  made  me  feel  that  you  have  placed  me,  from 
the  first,  on  the  list  of  your  first  and  greatest  friends  and 
have  never  changed,  and  I  have  always  felt  you  love  me, 
and  so  I  feel  sad  in  failing  to  be  of  any  use  to  you  now  just 
when  you  want  me.  It  touched  me  more  than  I  can  say 
when  Helen  told  me  that  you  would  rather  see  me  now 
than  any  other  friend.  God  bless  you  for  that — and  I 
do  love  you,  and  my  spirit,  which  is  strong,  is  with  you 
to-day,  when  my  worn-out,  useless  body  cannot  come ! 
I  am  glad  that  you  are  writing  to  me,  and  I  hope  it  will 
not  tire  you.  But  when  you  have  told  me  all  that  you 
are  thinking  about  yourself,  I  shall  be  able  to  write  to 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     319 

you  better.     The  first  day  I  can  get  out  I  will  come  to 
you. 

"Your  loving  and  oldest  friend, 
"Madeline  Wyndham. 
"God  bless  you  and  make  you  well." 

I  felt,  in  some  way,  that  I  belonged  to  Aunt  Mad- 
eline— and  it  was  always  easy  to  me  to  be  quite  frank 
with  her. 

The  closeness  of  our  friendship  began  in  the  old 
days  at  "Clouds." 

When  everyone  had  gone  to  bed,  I  would  say: 
"Let  us  sit  up  and  talk  a  little,  sleep  is  such  a  waste 
of  time,"  and  she  squeezed  my  arm  and  said :  "Isn't 
it?" 

She  gave  more  sympathy  and  understanding  in  an 
hour  than  another  would  give  in  a  lifetime — with 
her  knowledge  of  this  world  and  of  the  world  of 
art.  She  seemed  to  be  in  touch,  too,  with  the  world 
beyond.  Most  people  are  waiting  for  miracles.  I 
think  Aunt  Madeline  found  miracles  every- 
where. .  .  . 

I  have  never  seen  in  anyone  the  same  eagerness  to 
bring  friend  and  friend  together,  that  each  might 
appreciate  the  gift  or  charm  of  the  other.  She  was 
all  warmth  and  welcome;  in  her  presence  no  one 
could  feel  "out  in  the  cold." 

Many  of  her  children  and  her  children's  children 
are  blessed  with  some  of  her  radiance.  .  .  . 


320    MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

And  from  Africa,  loving,  anxious  "code"  cables 
came  from  my  Stella. 

Among  a  multitude  of  letters  from  those  in  my 
profession  and  strangers,  this  little  note  from  Ellen 
Terry: 

"215,  King's  Road, 

"Saturday  morning. 
"My  dear, 

"I'm  so  sorry  you  are  ill — I  knew  nothing  of  your 
accident!  I  have  been  at  my  little  cottage  in  the  country 
with  some  of  my  grandchildren,  and  have  been  for  the 
last  three  months  so  wrapped  up  in  my  own  ills  I  had 
no  time  to  read  the  newspapers.  I,  too,  have  had  an 
accident;  must  have  knocked  up  against  something  and 
broke  my  heart — at  least,  it  is  in  a  horrid  condition  and 
all  my  vitality  gone.  Sloth  has  hold  on  me,  I  fear,  and 
I  enjoy  nothing  but  sleep !  !  !  Although  I  get  precious 
little  of  that! 

"Do  get  well — and  keep  on  being  lovely  Patricia 
Campbell. 

"Don't  dream  of  answering  this  note,  I  just  want 
you  to  know  I'm  sorry  you're  ill.  I  hope  you  have  good 
news  of  little  Stella. 

"Yours  always, 
"Ellen  Terry." 

D.  D.  Lyttelton  sat  with  me  almost  every  day! — 
endeavouring  to  inspire  me  with  the  beauty  of  life — 
the  desire  to  live  and  to  believe  in  life  and  happiness. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     321 

But  directly  I  was  alone  there  was  that  feeling 
that  I  could  not  take  up  life  again. 

One  day  George  came  to  see  me;  I  had  not  seen 
him  for  a  very  long  time;  he  seemed  deeply  moved 
and  unhappy.  His  words  "Live,  Stella;  live,  and 
help  me"  touched  me  to  the  roots  of  my  being,  and  the 
belief  that  I  could  help  him  remained  with  me. 

^  *  yf*  yf* 

There  was  one  who  perhaps  through  the  intelli- 
gent grasp  of  his  genius,  understood  a  little  the  nerve 
rack  of  my  illness.  Himself  living  in  dreams,  he 
made  a  dream-world  for  me.  Only  those  who  can 
understand  this,  can  understand  the  friendship  Bern- 
ard Shaw  gave  to  me  by  my  sick  bed — the  foolish, 
ridiculous  letters  he  wrote  me,  and  his  pretence  of 
being  in  love  with  me. 

He  revelled  in  the  mischievous  fun  and  in  the 
smiles  he  brought  to  my  face.  He  did  not  care  a 
snap  of  the  fingers  at  the  moment  what  anybody  else 
might  say  or  think. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

Mr.  Bernard  Shaw 

IN  the  early  days  of  our  acquaintance  we  had 
had  conversation  something  like  this: 
I:     "What  about  God?" 
He:  /am  God." 
I:     ''Don't  be  silly." 

He:     "Where  would  you  be  without  your  face?" 
I:     "I'm  not  going  to  talk  to  you  any  more." 
He:     "Scorn  me,  scorn  me;  I  don't  mind.     Two 
hundred  years  hence,  the  world  will  say  that  you 
were  my  mistress,  and was  our  son!" 

There  is  a  certain  "maiden  modesty"  about  Joey* 
which,  to  my  mind,  is  his  inimitable  charm;  but 
both  his  genius  and  his  charm,  are  at  the  mercy  of 
his  Irish  mischievousness — disarming  and  enraging. 

To  be  made  to  hold  his  tongue  is  the  greatest  in- 
sult you  can  offer  him — though  he  might  be  ready 
with  a  poker  to  make  you  hold  yours. 

His  want  of  consideration  for  other  people's  feel- 
ings, is  not  from  a  lack  of  gentlemanliness;  it  is 
necessary  sport  of  his  brilliant  impudence. 

But  woe  betide — should  another  say  a  word  that 
belittles!     In  a  trice,  the  belittled  one  is  lifted  high 

•I  always  called  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw  "Joey." 

322 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     323 

as  the  sky:  mental  catch-if-you-can  and  leap-frog, 
are  the  hobby  of  his  genius. 

Is  it  the  song  of  life  that  Joey  sings,  with  its 
tragedy  and  finality? 

Or  is  it  the  song — accompanied  by  many  delicious 
and  sometimes  glorious  "tra-la-las" — of  his  pertin- 
ent intellectual  triumph  over  some  human  weak- 
ness: the  song  of  the  would-be  Superman? 

I  have  sometimes  thought  that  perhaps  it  is  only 
his  human  heart  he  hides  and  fears. 

With  his  permission,  and  braving  his  "You  wanted 
to  show  the  world  that  the  scalp  of  a  Superman  dec- 
orates your  wigwam — wretch  that  I  love."  I  give 
only  a  few  of  his  delightful  letters ;  letters  that  helped 
me  through  some  sad  days. 

"10,  Adelphi  Terrace, 
"28th  September,  19 12. 

"How  are  you?  .... 

"If  I  had  another  play  ready  I  should  read  it  to  you 
just  to  find  out  whether  you  are  really  ill  or  not;  but  I 
have  nothing  but  the  Christian  martyr  play,  a  bellowing, 
roaring  business,  which  would  unroof  your  house  and 
leave  you  naked  beneath  the  worshipping  stars. 

"And,  anyhow,  I  never  encourage  illness.  When  I 
saw  you  last  you  were  ill  in  bed,  but  you  had  the  energy 
of  ten  tigresses;  and  your  remarkably  fine  neck  would 
have  carried  the  pediment  of  the  Parthenon  like  a  feather 
if  you  had  been  snatched  from  between  the  sheets  and 
set  up  as  a  caryatid. 

"It  is  I  who  need  sympathy.     I  have  just  had  a  letter 


324     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

from   a    suffragette,   beginning,    'Poor   ill-used   darling.' 
"Don't  tell  Helen  to  write  to  me:  she  must  be  perfectly 
sick  of  the  subject  of  your  ridiculous  and  probably  im- 
aginary illness.     Get  up  and  console  ME. 

"Ever, 
"G.  B.  S." 

"Midland  AdelphI  Hotel, 

"Liverpool, 
"23rd  October,  1912. 
"Stella, 

"You  must  be  either  better  or  dead.  Say,  oh,  fairest, 
are  you  up  and  about?  If  you  are,  it  is  your  duty  to 
write  to  me.  I  hope  you  have  fost  your  good  looks;  for 
whilst  they  last  any  fool  can  adore  you,  and  the  adoration 
of  fools  is  bad  for  the  soul.  No:  give  me  a  ruined  com- 
plexion and  a  lost  figure  and  sixteen  chins  and  a  farmyard 
of  crows'  feet  and  an  obvious  wig.  Then  you  shall  see 
me  come  out  strong.   .   .   . 

"I  haven't  been  quite  the  same  man  since  our  meeting. 
I  suppose  you  are  a  devil:  they  all  tell  me  so  when  I  go 
on  raving  about  you.  Well,  I  don't  care.  I  have  al- 
ways said  that  it  is  the  devil  that  makes  the  hell;  but 
here  is  a  devil  who  makes  heaven.  Wherefore  I  kiss 
your  hands  and  praise  Creation  for  you,  and  hope  you 
are  well,  as  this  leaves  me  at  present,  thank  God  for  it. 
This  is  the  Irish  formula,  which,  by  the  way,  I  should 
have  adopted  earlier  in  this  letter,  as  every  sentence 
would  then  have  begun  with  Dear  Stella.  I  used  to 
write  letters  for  Irish  servants  when  I  was  a  child. 
'Dear  Mother,  I  hope  you  are  well,  as  it  leaves  me  at 
present,  thank  God  for  it.  Dear  Mother,  I  saw  Bridget 
on  Friday,  and  she  desires  to  be  remembered  to  you. 


GEORGE   BERNARD    SHAW 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     325 

Dear  Mother,  I  hope  you  got  the  flannel  petticoat 
safely.  Dear  Mother,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.,  etc., 
etc' 

"I  shall  be  here  until  Sunday  morning,  I  expect. 

"I  have  just  recovered  from  one  of  the  famous  head- 
aches, and  am  not  quite  sane  yet. 

"G.  B.  S." 

"10,  Adelphi  Terrace,  W.  C. 
"30th  October,  19 12. 

"O,  beautiful,  illustrious,  I  have  mountains  of  work 
upon  me  here,  and  cannot  return  to  town  until  Friday 
morning  as  ever  will  be.  ...  I  cannot  find  Androcles 
here,  and  am  not  quite  sure  that  Gilbert  Murray  re- 
turned it  to  me  when  I  sent  it  to  him  to  Cromer;  but  if 
it  be  within  my  reach  in  London  I  will  come  on  Friday 
at  four  and — unless  you  write  forbidding  me — bellow 
it  in  your  coral  ears  until  Kensington  Square  shakes 
down  its  railings. 

*'0,  brave,  high-souled  lady  and  cleanser  and  inspirer 
of  my  trampled  spirit,  I  would  the  post  were  in  hell,  since 
it  will  not  wait  another  moment.   .   .   . 

''G.  B.  S." 

He  came  and  read  me  Androcles.  I  was  really 
too  ill  to  listen,  and  it  nearly  killed  me;  in  the  even- 
ing my  temperature  went  up  dangerously  high. 

We  had  some  conversation  about  his  childhood, 
and  this  unfinished  letter  came : 

"Court  Lodge, 
"3rd  November,  19 12. 
*'0,  glorious,  white  marble  lady,  what  was  done  to 


326     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

me  in  my  childhood  was  just  nothing  at  all  of  an  inten- 
tional kind.  I  wasn't  spoiled;  and  I  wasn't  helped. 
No  direct  ill-treatment  was  added  by  anybody  to  the 
horrors  of  the  world.  Nobody  forbade  me  to  discover 
what  I  could  of  its  wonders.  1  was  taken — and  took 
myself — for  what  I  was:  a  disagreeable  little  beast.  No- 
body concerned  himself  or  herself  as  to  what  I  was 
capable  of  becoming,  nor  did  L  I  did  not  know  I  was 
different  from  other  people  (except  for  the  worse)  : 
far  from  being  conceited,  I  hadn't  even  common  self- 
respect.  I  have  discovered  all  my  powers  from  the  out- 
side, with  incredulous  astonishment,  or,  rather,  I  have 
discovered  that  everybody  else  hasn't  got  them.  My 
shyness  and  cowardice  have  been  beyond  belief. 

"G.  B.  S." 

I  found  out  afterwards  that  in  the  following  letter, 
Joey  was  treating  me  to  a  stale  bit  out  of  one  of  his 

plays: 

"lo,  Adelphi  Terrace,  W.  C, 

"8th  November,  1912. 
"Stella,  Stella, 

"Shut  your  ears  tight  against  this  blarneying  Irish 
liar  and  actor.  Read  no  more  of  his  letters.  He  will 
fill  his  fountain  pen  with  your  heart's  blood,  and  sell 
your  most  sacred  emotions  on  the  stage.  He  is  a  mass 
of  imagination  with  no  heart.  He  is  a  writing  and 
talking  machine  that  has  worked  for  nearly  forty  years 
until  its  skill  is  devilish.  I  should  have  warned  you  be- 
fore; but  I  thought  his  white  hairs  and  56  years  had 
made  his  philanderings  ridiculous.  He  cares  for  noth- 
ing really  but  his  mission,  as  he  calls,  it  and  his  work. 
He  Is  treacherous  as  only  an  Irishman  can  be;  he  adores 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     327 

you  with  one  eye  and  sees  you  with  the  other  as  a  cal- 
culated utility.  He  has  been  recklessly  trying  to  please 
you,  to  delight  you,  to  persuade  you  to  carry  him  up  to 
heaven  for  a  moment  (he  Is  trying  to  do  it  now)  ;  and 
when  you  have  done  It,  he  will  run  away  and  give  It  all 
to  the  mob.  All  his  goods  are  in  the  shop  window;  and 
he'll  steal  your  goods  and  put  them  there,  too. 

"But  don't  cut  him  off  utterly.  He  is  really  worth 
something,  even  to  you,  if  you  harden  your  heart  against 
him.  He  win  tell  you  that  you  are  too  great  a  woman 
to  belong  to  any  man,  meaning,  I  suppose  that  he  is  too 
great  a  man  to  belong  to  any  woman.  He  will  warn 
you  against  himself  with  passionate  regard  for  you — 
sincerely  too,  and  yet  knowing  it  to  be  one  of  his  most 
dangerous  tricks.  He  will  warn  you  against  his  warn- 
ing you,  not  meaning  you  to  take  any  warning,  and  he 
will  say  later  on,  'I  told  you  so.'  His  notion  of  a  woman 
in  love  with  him  is  one  who  turns  white  and  miserable 
when  he  comes  into  the  room,  and  is  all  one  wretched 
jealous  reproach.*  Oh  don't,  don't,  DON'T  fall  in 
love  with  him;  but  don't  grudge  him  the  joy  he  finds 
in  writing  all  sorts  of  wild  but  heartfelt  exquisite  lies — 
lies,  lies,  lies,  lies. 

"G.  B.  S." 

"10,  Adelphi  Terrace,  W.  C. 

"i8th  November,   1912. 
"I  am  clearly  in  my  second  childhood   (56  not  54)  ; 
for  you  might  be  the  Virgin  Mary  and  I  an  Irish  peas- 

*This  is  a  written  variation  on  a  saying  of  his  which  ran  something 
like  this:  "Englishmen  are  terrors  to  young  Irishmen.  If  you  pay  an 
Irishwoman  a  gallant  compliment,  she  grins  and  says,  'Arra  g'along 
with  you.'  An  Englishwoman  turns  deadly  pale,  and  says,  in  a  strangled 
voice,  'I  hope  you  meant  what  you  have  just  said.'  And  it  is  devilish 
difficult  to  explain  that  you  didn't." 


328     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

ant,  and  my  feeling  for  you  could  not  be  more  Innocent. 

"Such  concord  will  make  me  silly.  Let  us  work  to- 
gether and  quarrel  and  come  upon  all  sorts  of  incompati- 
bilities. Our  music  must  have  discords  in  it  or  you  will 
tire  of  it. 

"I  think  you  are  getting  well.  I  hear  a  ring.  I  see  a 
flash  in  your  letter.  The  able  courageous  Stella  is  stir- 
ring. And  perhaps  she  will  put  me  away  with  the  arrow- 
root.    No  matter,  I  shall  rejoice  and  glory  in  her. 

"Good  nightest. 

"G.  B.  S." 

"Ayot,  St.  Lawrence, 
"27th  November,  1912. 

"Oh,  all  they  say  is  true.  I  have  no  heart.  Here  I 
am  with  my  brains  grinding  like  millstones,  writing  a 
preface  for  my  long  belated  volume  of  plays,  and  stop- 
ping only  to  bring  my  quick  firers  into  action  by  hurling 
a  devastating  letter  into  some  public  controversy. 
Grind,  grind;  bang,  bang;  broken  heads  and  broken 
wings  everywhere  within  range;  'and  this  word  Love, 
which  graybeards  call  divine,  be  resident  in  men  like  one 
another  and  not  in  me:  /  am  myself  alone.'  (Ap- 
plause, started  by  the  tragedian  himself  with  his  boot 
heels.) 

"Stella!  Who  is  Stella?  Did  I  ever  know  anybody 
named  Stella?  Can't  remember;  what  does  it  matter? 
I  have  articles  to  write  and  the  preface  to  finish.  I  have 
to  debate  with  Hilaire  Belloc  in  the  Queen's  Hall  on  the 
28th  January.  Not  an  advertisement  has  appeared,  and 
the  hall  is  nearly  sold  out  already.  And  actresses  talk  to 
me  of  their  popularity!  I  want  no  Stella;  I  want  my 
brains,  my  pen,  my  platform,  my  audience,  my  adversary, 
my  mission. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     329 

"Parents  and  children :  that  is  the  theme  of  my  preface. 
The  tears  of  countless  children  have  fallen  unavenged. 
I  will  turn  them  into  boiling  vitriol  and  force  it  into  the 
sculs  of  their  screaming  oppressors. 

"It  is  certain  that  I  am  a  callous  creature;  for  I  have 
let  you  write  to  me  twice — no,  that  can't  be!  I  did 
answer.  But  would  not  a  man  with  a  grain  of  heart 
have  written  ten  times?  Oh,  I  have  been  as  hard  as 
nails  for  a  fortnight  past.  I  was  when  I  began  this 
letter.  I  shall  be  so  again  when  I  post  it.  But  now, 
just  for  a  moment — only  a  moment — before  the  grind- 
stones begin  again. 

"Your  set-back  makes  me  desperate :  I  had  set  my 
heart  on  your  getting  well  with  a  rush  this  time.  Oh, 
you  must,  you  must,  you  shall.  You  shall  be  torn  out  of 
bed  and  shaken  into  rude  health.  Oh,  why  can't  I  do 
anything?  What  use  are  grindstones  after  all?  Good- 
night and  forgive  my  follies. 

"G.  B.  S." 

"8th  December,  19 12. 
"My  dear  Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell, 

"It  is  so  many  years  since  I  have  heard  from  you  that 
I  have  lost  all  hope  of  your  retaining  any  kindly  feeling 
for  me.  I  am  like  a  dentist:  there  is  so  much  that  is 
wounding  about  my  work  that  I  am  continually  afraid  of 
your  going  back  to  hard  thoughts  of  me  in  my  most 
detestable  moments.  Mesalliance  may  have  revived  all 
your  dislikes.  I  don't  like  myself  well  enough — though 
I  admire  myself  enormously — to  expect  anyone  else  to 
like  me. 

"I  now  have  a  mystic  theory  of  your  illness :  it  is  a  trap 
of  the  Life  Force — the  Elan  Vitale.  I  once  fell  into  that 
trap.     I  will  explain  viva  voce.     I  recovered.     You  will 


330     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

recover.  But  these  traps  of  the  Life  Force  sometimes 
set  up  a  morbid  routine  out  of  which  the  victim  has  to 
be  shaken.   .   .   . 

"Now  I  wonder  what  would  happen  if  you  told  the 
doctors  that  you  distinctly  recollect  that  you  swallowed  a 
brooch  at  rehearsal  in  a  transport  of  fury  and  that  you 
can  feel  it  in  your  appendix.  Insist  on  being  X-rayed  to 
detect  and  locate  the  foreign  body,  and  see  what  will 
happen.  Those  X-rays  are  rum  things:  they  will  upset 
the  routine  that  the  illness  has  started,  and  they  won't 
hurt  or  harm  you  (I  speak  from  experience:  I  have  had 
my  inside  X-rayed  as  well  as  my  foot).  I  am  over- 
whelmingly convinced  that  you  want  a  change  of  some 
sort,  or  a  shake. 

"I  should  like  to  see  you  if  I  may  come  some  day  next 
week  {this  week  it  will  be  when  you  get  this).  I  have 
a  very  indelicate  question  to  put  to  you  on  a  matter  of 
business,  which  I  have  put  off  and  off  and  off;  but  I  have 
been  a  little  uneasy  about  it  all  along,  and  now  I  think 
I  had  better  ask  it,  and  have  done  with  it.  Could  you 
spare  me  a  moment  on  Tuesday  afternoon?  I  had  in- 
tended to  chain  myself  to  the  gate  here  and  have  a  week 
in  the  country,  as  my  speech  at  the  Irish  Meeting  on 
Friday — violently  overacted — finished  me  almost;  but 
now  I  am  forced  to  produce  a  hasty  revival  of  John 
Bull's  Other  Island  for  Boxing  Day,  and  this  means 
rehearsing  every  day  from  to-morrow  on. 

"If  all  the  saints  and  all  the  angels  and  the  Blessed 
Virgin  were  all  rolled  into  one  beautiful  woman  and  all 
the  prayers  and  adorations,  and  loves  and  worships  they 
drew  to  themselves  were  concentrated  into  one  holy 
passion,  it  would  all  be  as — no  room  to  finish.  Guess 
the  rest. 

"G.  B.  S." 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     331 

I  do  not  remember  his  coming  and  talking  to  me 
about  this  ^'matter  of  business";  evidently  he  did, 
and  I  was  offended.     This  letter  was  the  outcome : 

"loth  December,  19 12. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  the  calculations  I  have  been  going  over 
in  my  head  ever  since  you  became  ill?     Listen. 

"Money.  She  must  have  money  to  go  on  with.  Has 
she  any?  Let  me  see.  £116  a  week  all  through  the 
run  of  Bella  Donna.  Half  to  the  bankers  to  pay  off 
debts.  That  leaves  £58  a  week  going  to  her  credit.  But 
it  also  proves  that  the  bankers  must  have  allowed  her  to 
overdraw  recklessly.  For  that,  the  bank  manager  ought 
to  be  sacked;  for  there  are  no  securities:  she  told  me 
she  had  saved  nothing.  Unless  the  bank  has  insured 
her  life,  the  manager's  conduct  in  permitting  the  over- 
draft is  unbusinesslike  to  the  verge  of  malversation. 
Therefore,  either  the  manager  or  the  firm  (or  more 
probably  all  of  them)  is  in  love  with  her.  That  being 
so,  they  may  say:  'Perish  the  bank;  let  her  have  the  last 
sovereign  in  the  safe  rather  than  she  should  have  a  mo- 
ment's anxiety.'  In  their  place  I  should  have  that  im- 
pulse. 

"But  business  is  business:  in  practice  there  is  a  limit  to 
all  overdrafts.  That  limit  may  be  approaching — may 
be  already  reached — must  be  near  enough  to  cause  some 
anxiety.  Are  there  friends? — for  pride  is  no  use:  when 
you  must  have  money,  you  must  take  it  or  raise  it — 
must,  must,  must,  must,  MUST.  If  friends  didn't  offer 
and  insist,  she  might  go  to  a  moneylender.  She  would. 
Delicacy.  That's  the  difficulty.  A  woman  is  visibly 
spending  money  like  water  and  earning  nothing;  and 
people  talk  of  delicacy !  Thank  God,  /  have  no  delicacy, 
no  good  taste :  she  said  so.     Oh,  sweet  revenge,  to  turn 


332     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

myself,  like  Jupiter  with  Dans,  into  a  shower  of  gold! 
Only  I  haven't  gold  enough.  .  .  .  No:  it  doesn't  run  to 
a  shower. 

"How  much  will  she  need?  No,  I -must  be  prudent: 
how  little  can  she  scrape  through  with?  There's  the 
rent,  the  Xmas  quarter.  The  Xmas  boxes,  bills,  nurses, 
doctors.  Of  course  she  is  saving  a  lot  by  being  in  bed: 
no  dressing,  no  taxis.  The  thought  that  there  might  be 
a  bill  of  sale  on  that  piano  is  like  a  dagger.  Insistent 
problem:  how  much  will  make  her  quite  free  from  anx- 
iety until  she  is  up  again?  And  how  much  can  I  afford? 
No  use  pretending  to  be  opulent;  I'm  not.  The  Xmas 
fortnight:  would  £250  get  her  over  it? 

"Oh,  God!  To  offer  Stella  a  filthy  little  £250.  I 
spit  on  myself;  but  she  says  she  can't  keep  money;  gives 
it  to  whoever  asks  her;  despicable  weakness.  Better, 
perhaps,  dole  out  a  little  at  a  time:  other  fortnights  will 
follow  Xmas.  How  much  can  I  afford?  Ass.  Why 
ask  that  question  over  and  over  again?  You  know  per- 
fectly well  that  you  want  to  give  her  a  thousand  pounds. 
Very  well,  put  your  cheque  book  in  your  pocket  and  go  to 
her  and  ask  her.  If  she  does  not  want  it  there  is  no 
harm  done?  You  are  no  use:  that  is  all.  If  she  does 
want  it,  and  will  not  take  it,  there  are  ways — artful  ways 
— guileful  ways — but  the  simple  way  is  sincere  and  will 
do.  True,  she  will  suddenly  realize  that  I  am,  after  all, 
a  stranger  to  her;  but  what  of  that!  She  is  not  a 
stranger  to  me,  and  she  has  forfeited  the  right  to  refuse 
because  she  has  given  me  money,  and  would  give  it  to  me 
if  I  wanted  it.  Can  I  seriously  believe  she  will  say,  'In- 
solent stranger:  you  have  violated  my  pride,  my  privacy, 
my  feeling  that  I  must  be  a  star  and  not  a  candle  lighted 
by  a  man  with  a  match.  Ring  the  bell,  and  have  yourself 
turned  out'? 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     333 

"I  wasn't  a  bit  afraid  of  that.  And  that  is  the  whole 
argument  that  ended  yesterday. 

"My  grandfather  used  to  say  that  no  living  man,  prince 
or  pauper,  could  refuse  a  five  pound  note  if  you  crackled  it 
under  his  nose?  Say  what  you  will,  there's  something 
dignified  about  a  thousand  pound  note.  Wouldn't  you 
like  to  take  it  and  burn  it  before  my  face?  Quel  geste? 
I  could  take  the  number,  swear  to  the  burning,  get 
another  one,  crackle  that,  too. 

"Stella,  if  those  bankers — no,  don't  be  angry,  I  only 
say  IF,  IF,  IF,  IF,  IF.  And  so  enough  of  that.  Only, 
if  ever  you  want  anything  ever  so  little,  remember — 
crackle,  crackle,  crackle  crackle. 

"G.  B.  S." 

I  am  ashamed  to  say  that  for  a  moment  this  offer 
made  me  indignant;  later  I  realised  it  was  a  glimpse 
of  Joey's  heart,  and  I  was  very  touched;  but  whether 
he  was  hurt  or  relieved  by  my  refusal  of  the  thou- 
sand pounds  he  has  never  told  me. 

After  about  eight  months  it  was  finally  decided 
that  I  should  go  into  a  Nursing  Home. 

He  wrote: — 

"This  is  the  day  of  battle;  and  when  the  trumpet 
sounds,  good-bye  to  dread  and  terrors;  they  are  for 
cowards  like  me  (I  am  your  knight  of  the  White  Feather, 
brave  Stella)  ;  you  must  march  with  colours  flying  and 
the  music  in  D  major.  And  you  shall  leave  me  the  ad- 
dress of  that  home*  which  will  be  the  home  of  my  heart 

*  Nursing   Home. 


334     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

while  you  are  there.  And  I  agree  that  when  you  are 
well  we  shall  be  Mr,  Bernard  Shaw  and  Mrs.  Patrick 
Campbell;  for  Stella  means  only  Stella,  but  Mrs.  Patrick 
Campbell  will  mean  my  adored,  ensainted  friend. 

"A  thousand  successes,  a  thousand  healings,  a  thou- 
sand braveries,  a  thousand  prayers,  a  thousand  beauties, 
a  thousand  hopes  and  faiths  and  loves  and  adorations 
watch  over  you  and  rain  upon  you.  Good  night,  good 
night,  good  night,  good  night. 

"G.  B.  S." 

He  was  firmly  convinced  that  he  had  been  the 
kindest  of  critics  during  his  old  exploits  as  a  Satur- 
day Reviewer  of  the  theatre.  "If  people  had  only 
known  the  things  I  didn't  say,"  was  one  of  his  ex- 
cuses. 

I  reminded  him  of  his  callous  attitude  towards  my 
work,  and  this  letter  came. 

"4th  January,  1913. 
"Dearest  Liar,  I  have  found  you  out.     You  have  been 
tormenting  me  for  weeks  because  I  wrote  odious  things 

about  you  in  the  past.     Well  yesterday  C wanted 

a  copy  of  that  American  reprint  of  my  Saturday  Review 
articles  which  I  so  dread,  and  I  got  it  for  him.  And  be- 
fore I  sent  it  away  I  screwed  my  courage  up  and  forced 
myself  to  read  the  articles  about  you.  And  what  a 
revelation!  What  a  relief!  What  a  triumph!  Never 
did  a  man  paint  his  infatuation  across  the  heavens  as  I 
painted  mine  for  you,  rapturously  and  shamelessly. 
Not  a  line  would  have  jarred  with  my  wildest  letters  to 
you.  First  Tanqueray.  Sweep  this  silly  piece  away 
and  let  us  hear  this  glorious  woman  play;  it  is  only  an 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     335 

unbearable      interruption      to      her.     Then      Ebbsmith 
smashed,   pulverized,   flung  into   the   dustbin:   it  proves 
nothing  but  that  Mrs.  Campbell  is  a  wonderful  woman. 
Then  Romeo  and  Juliet.      Mrs.   Campbell   danced   like 
'the  daughter  of  Herodias.'     Away  with  the  play,  away 
with  Shakespeare,  away  with  'Juliet':  nothing  of  it  re- 
mains except  her  dance,  and  that  shall  endure  for  ever. 
Then  I   came   to  Michael  and  His  Lost  Angel,  and  I 
trembled,  for  I  well  remember  how  Jones  read  that  play 
to  me,  and  what  he  had  done  for  you   (by  this  I  mean, 
how  much  pains  he  had  taken  to  write  the  part  for  you), 
and  what  he  hoped  from  you,  and  how  he  was  at  the 
height  of  his  achievement  then,  and  how  heartlessly  you 
flung  him  aside  and  trampled  on  him.     And  he  had  been 
entirely  kind  and  helpful  to  me.      I   said  to  myself,   'I 
cannot  have  forgiven  her  for  this:  I  dare  not  read  the 
next  notice.'     But  I  nerved  myself,  and  did:  the  notice 
of    For    the    Crown.     Criticism?     Just    Gods!   a    mad 
rapture  of  adoration.     Not  even  silence  about  Jones,  but 
an  open  declaration  that  the  sacrifice  was  worth  it  if  only 
it  pleased  you.     Ten  thousand  Joneses  and  Pineros  and 
Shakespeares  were  nothing  in  comparison.     I  would  not 
hear  even  of  your  acting.     'On  the  highest  plane  one 
does  not  act,  one  is.*     I  would  not  have  even  'Juliet': 
Stella,    Stella,    nothing   but    Stella.     Nothing   that   you 
could  do  was  wrong:  everything  was  a  glory.     And  you, 
wretch,  dare  reproach  me  for  this  because  I  did  not  say, 
'Mrs.  Campbell's  rendition  of  the  potion  scene  was  sound 
and  scholarly,  and  her  readings  of  the  text  were  original 
and    profound.'      That    was    what    you    wanted,    Mrs. 
Crummies.     And   I   rolled   Pinero   in   the    dust  beneath 
your   feet    (the   feet  I  kissed  with  my  pen),   and   told 
Jones  publicly  that  he  was  fortunate  to  be  insulted  by 
you;  and  these  two  men  are  my  friends  and  have  never 


336     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

breathed  a  reproach,  whilst  you  say  that  I  treated  you 
shamefully  and  did  not  appreciate  you.  Are  you  not 
afraid  of  drawing  down  lightning  on  yourself?  I!  I, 
who  burnt  up  Shakespeare  so  that  his  sparks  might  whirl 
about  you  in  a  halo  of  glory.  I  challenge  you  passion- 
ately to  produce  one  word  that  has  ever  been  written  of 
you  by  anybody  that  is  more  abandoned  in  its  confession, 
that  shouts  more  recklessly  to  all  the  world  that  the 
writer  is  your  utter  captive. 

'And  so  good-night,  with  unfathomable  blessings. 

"G.  B.  S." 

Friends  used  to  come  and  play  chess  with  me  at 
the  Nursing  Home.  I  remember  Mr.  Max  Beer- 
bohm  playing  so  brilliantly  that  I  made  up  my  mind 
never  to  touch  a  chessman  again! 

However,  one  day  I  persuaded  Joey — in  spite  of 
his  hatred  of  all  games — to  have  a  game  with  me:  the 
following  letter  was  the  result: 

"id,  Adelphi  Terrace,  W.  C. 

"29th  January,  1913. 

"It  has  come  back  to  me  that  my  mother  used  to  say, 
'Prise  to  your  queen'  when  she  wanted  to  warn  me  that 
my  queen  was  in  danger.  I  suppose  it  was  prise;  but  it 
may  have  been  preeze,  or  preys  (or  the  analogy  of 
keys),  or  anything.  I  can't  imagine  that  I  have  been 
playing  chess,  or  that  I  remembered  so  much  about  it. 

"I  enjoyed  myself  enormously.  You  are  such  a  jolly 
playfellow.  And  such  a  child!  An  old-fashioned  child! 
I  should  like  to  spend  an  hour  every  day  with  you  in 
the  nursery.  I  no  longer  want  you  to  act  for  me :  I 
can't  bear  the  idea  of  your  having  to  work — you  are  not 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     337 

grown  up  enough.  And  you  don't  want  me  to  be  busy, 
but  to  come  and  play.  I  am  so  tempted  that  I  must  set 
up  a  barrier  of  engagements  between  us. 

"There  are  such  wonderful  sorts  of  relations,  and 
close  togethernesses,  and  babes-in-the-woodinesses,  be- 
sides being  in  love,  which,  as  you  point  out,  my  diet  and 
feeble  nature  forbid.  I  may  have  moments  of  being  in 
love,  but  you  must  overlook  them. 

'And  now,  having  expressed  myself  with  carefully 
punctuated  moderation,  I  shall  go  to  bed  quite  calmly, 
and  sign  myself,  oh,  loveliest,  doveliest,  babiest, 

"Your  gabiest, 

"G.  B.  S." 

"7th  February,  19 13. 
"Now  a  last  line.  I  wish  I  could  write  verses.  Why 
do  not  rhymes  come  tumbling  into  my  head  naturally,  as 
they  did  into  Morris's?  I  have  to  play  things,  sing  things, 
repeat  things,  that  you  set  jingling  in  my  head.  It  seems 
to  me  that  all  the  poets  have  been  in  love  with  you;  for 
they  seem  to  have  said  everything;  and  my  words  that 
would  praise  thee  are  impotent  things;  and  I  was  a  child 
and  she  (you)  was  (were)  a  child  in  a  kingdom  by  the 
sea;  and  it  is  undeniable  that  the  moon  never  beams  with- 
out bringing  me  dreams,  and  the  stars  never  rise  but  I  see 
the  bright  eyes,  and  so  on  and  so  forth;  but  if  I  try  to 
make  verses  for  myself  I  can  think  of  no  rhyme  to  Stella 
but  umbrella,  and  only  too  damn  well  I  love  Mrs.  Camp- 
bell, and  horrors  of  that  sort.  The  thing  should  rush 
into  my  head  or  come  to  my  hand  as  prose  does — ready 
made.  I  never  have  to  think  of  how  to  say  anything  in 
prose:  the  words  come  with  the  thought.  I  often  have 
to  argue  a  thing  carefully  to  get  it  right;  but  when  I 
have  found  the  right  thing  to  say  it  says  itself  instantly; 


338     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

and  matters  of  teeling  don't  even  have  to  be  argued. 
Yet  when  I  want  frightfully  to  ringle-jingle  with  words 
they  don't  come  that  way.  I  suppose  it's  want  of  prac- 
tice:  if  I  had  always  written  in  verse  I  probably  couldn't 
write  in  anything  else,  which  would  be  a  nuisance.  When 
Morris  talked  prose  in  criticism  of  things  he  didn't  much 
like,  he  was  often  at  a  loss  for  a  word,  and  used  me  as 
a  dictionary.  I  used  to  hand  him  the  word  he  was 
looking  for;  and  he  would  snatch  it  up  with  relief, 
though  he  could  sling  rhymes  without  having  to  think 
about  them,  and  used  to  look  at  me  with  incredulous  dis- 
gust when  I  told  him  that  when  I  wanted  a  rhyme  I  had 
to  try  down  the  alphabet:  Stella,  bella,  sella,  della, 
fellah,  hella,  hell  a,  quell  a,  sell  a,  tell  a,  well  a,  yell  a, 
Campbell,  bramble,  gamble,  ramble,  etc.,  etc.  He  did 
not  consider  poetry  worth  all  that  trouble — and  I  agree: 
I  always  tell  people  that  if  they  can't  do  three-quarters 
of  any  art  by  nature  they'd  better  sweep  a  crossing. 

"My  mother  cut  a  wisdom  tooth  when  she  was  eighty. 
I  ask  myself  sometimes,  am  I  cutting  a  folly  tooth  at 
fifty-six?  Still,  one  has  to  become  as  a  little  child  again 
— in  that  kingdom  by  the  sea. 

"I  have  been  reading  John  Palmer's  book  on  the 
censorship  (he  is  my  successor  on  the  Saturday  Review 
now,  and  much  the  cleverest  of  the  lot),  and  he  says: 
'Mr.  Shaw  is  a  militant  Puritan,  to  whom  the  West  End 
theatre  is  definitely  the  gate  of  hell.'  Am  I  really  a 
Puritan?  'The  beautiful  Puritan  pansies' — yes,  I  think 
I   am.     Good-night.     The  birds  will  cover  us  up  with 

leaves. 

"G.  B.  S." 

Though  he  wrote  and  talked  as  if  no  other  con- 
sideration existed  in  the  world  except  his  regard  for 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     339 

me,  his  work,  his  endless  political  lectures  and  com- 
mittees, and  his  very  well  regulated  house  came  be- 
fore everything.  Whatever  might  betide,  Charlotte 
(Mrs.  Shaw)  must  not  be  kept  waiting  ten  minutes. 
To  me,  accustomed  to  the  irregularities  and  emergen- 
cies of  the  theatre,  which  make  all  meals  movable 
feasts  to  be  put  off  or  hurried  on  at  a  moment's  no- 
tice, Joey's  inflexible  domesticy  seemed  absurd;  es- 
pecially as  he  would  have  me  believe  he  only  ate 
apples,  carrots  and  potatoes. 

This  letter  is  an  example  of  his  busy  life,  begin- 
ning as  it  does  with  an  explanation  that  he  has  some- 
thing better  to  do  than  to  see  me,  and  ending  with 
a  rhapsody. 

"26th  February,  1913. 

"Next  week  will  be  a  week  of  oratory — two  orations, 
Monday  and  Thursday. 

"On  Friday  and  Saturday  the  afternoons  are  filled  to 
the  last  moment.  On  Sunday  I  shall  be  at  Ayot.  On 
Monday,  committee  and  oratory  as  aforesaid  will  occupy 
me  wholly.  On  Tuesday  you  may  have  fled  to  Brighton. 
This  seems  to  justify  me  in  coming  to-morrow,  if  I  may? 
As  you  must  take  a  drive  if  you  can,  I  will  not  come  until 
five.  If  that  is  too  early,  or  if  you  are  tired,  send  me  a 
wire  before  two. 

"Remember  that  I  am  always  your  saint,  and  that  my 
ecstasy  will  survive  disembodiment.  You  must  always 
sit  enthroned  in  heaven  for  me.  If  you  stopped  doing 
that,  my  unbreakable  (or  perhaps  broken)  heart  would 
harden. 

"It  is  an  enormously  unreasonable  demand  to  make  on 


340     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

a  mortal  woman;  but  I  make  it,  man-like,  because  I  do 
not  believe  in  mortality. 

"G.  B.  S. 

"Keep  in  the  clouds  with  her!     You  will  never  educate 
her  on  earth,  and  never  tire  of  her  in  heaven." 

"28th  February,  1913. 

"Who  mashed  Stella? 
I,  that  rejoice 
In  a  nice  Irish  voice, 
/  mashed  Stella. 

"Who  made  her  smile? 
Dis  very  chile. 
With  my  winks  and  my  wile, 
/  made  her  smile. 

"Who'll  be  her  man? 
Why,  he  that  can, 
Apollo  or  Pan, 
I'll  be  her  man. 

"Who  is  a  fool? 
I,  as  a  rule, 
(The  happiest  fool), 
/  am  a  fool. 

"Who  is  her  friend? 
Stella's  true  friend, 
World  without  end, 
/  am  her  friend." 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     341 

When  my  recovery  was  complete  and  I  was  at 
work  again,  I  learnt  that  his  sister  Lucy  was  an  in- 
valid. I  said  I  would  like  to  go  and  see  her:  his 
comment  was  *'Go;  she  will  tell  you  lies  about  my 
childhood ;  the  relatives  of  great  men  always  do." 
I  became  very  attached  to  Lucy;  he  was  pleased, 
but  insisted  that  I  must  not  on  any  account  kiss  her, 
for  fear  of  infection. 

This  struck  me  as  fantastic — an  incurable  invalid 
to  be  made  to  feel  she  was  too  infectious  to  kiss! 
Had  I  murmured  "noblesse  oblige,"  he  would  have 
grunted  "theatrical  effect  at  any  price."  I  always 
kissed  Lucy. 

"17th  June,  1913. 


(( 


The  enclosed  letter  from  Lucy  may  please  you 
a  little.  This  marble  heart  was  most  affectionately  grate- 
ful to  you  for  that  visit.  You  are  my  friend  and  my 
darling,  and  I  forgive  you  for  not  coming  down  to-day. 
The  country  was  disappointed.  The  rabbits  and  field 
mice  were  waiting  in  the  lanes  for  you;  and  when  they 
saw  it  was  only  me  on  my  reeking,  snorting  bike,  they 
scuttled  away  in  disgust.  The  heavens  were  furious; 
they  thundered  and  hurled  such  mouthfuls  of  rain  at  me 
that  the  lanes  became  torrents  In  five  minutes. 

"You  can't  come  to-morrow,  because  you  have  a 
matinee. 

"If  you  will  come  on  Thursday,  I  will  not  come  up 
until  Friday,  though  I  ought  to. 

"If  you  had  come  to-day  you  would  have  got  damp; 


342     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

but  we  should  have  had  tea  here,  perhaps.     There  is  a 
little  rift  in  the  clouds  at  last. 

"G.  B.  S." 

Joey  and  I  had  some  "words"  at  the  theatre — prob- 
ably over  negotiations  about  Pygmalion — and  I 
spent  nearly  an  hour  telling  him  nothing  would  ever 
make  a  gentleman  of  him;  the  next  day  he  wrote  as 
follows: 

"25th  June,  1913. 
"...  I    was    in    heaven    yesterday.     Spoke    to    the 
Queen.     A  dear  woman  and  frightfully  beautiful. 

"She  just  slanged  me  in  the  most  shocking  way  for  a 
full  hour:  and  I  adored  her  and  burnt  endless  candles  to 
her  all  the  time.  In  the  end  my  prayers  touched  her. 
And  now  I  have  a  halo  inside  like  this. 

"G.  B.  S." 

At  rehearsal,  in  pressing  my  hand  on  a  rough 
wooden  table,  I  had  managed  to  get  a  splinter  under 
my  thumbnail.  The  next  day  I  went  to  see  Lucy: 
Joey  and  her  doctor  were  there:  they  took  me  to  a 
chemist,  where  a  surgical  instrument  was  found  to 
remove  the  splinter. 

Joey  exclaimed  with  enthusiasm — as  my  nail  was 
being  slowly  lifted  and  the  splinter  withdrawn,  the 
veins  in  my  neck  swelling  in  my  efforts  to  resist  the 
pain — "By  jove!  what  a  throat,  'Michael  AngeloM" 

This  time  I  felt  Joey's  admiration  was  sincere. 

His  letter  shows  he  was  full  of  sympathy. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     343 

"6th  August,  1913. 

* ...  I  think  all  that  was  good  for  my  soul  because 
it  tore  everything  that  was  selfish  and  imaginary  right 
out  of  me,  and  made  you  a  real  fellow  creature  in  real 
pain.  (O  Lord,  my  fibres  all  twist  and  my  heart  and 
bowels  torment  me  when  I  think  of  it)  :  and  the  more 
real  you  become  the  more  I  discover  that  I  have  a  real, 
real,  real  kindness  for  you,  and  that  I  am  not  a  mere 
connoisseur  in  beauty  or  a  sensualist  or  a  philanderer,  but 
a — but  a — a — I  don't  know  what;  But  something  that 
has  deep  roots  in  it  that  you  pluck  at.  Only  why  should 
you  have  to  be  hurt  to  cure  me  of  selfishness  and  of  little 
fits  of  acting?  Why  should  it  not  be  an  ecstasy  of  happi- 
ness for  you,  that  would  move  me  too,  perhaps  still 
more  deeply? 

'Are  you  very  tired  and  low  in  the  counter-reaction? 
For  in  the  reaction  after  the  pain  I  am  sure  you  were 
wonderful.  If  I  were  with  you,  I  would  cheat  that 
counter-reaction  somehow — say  all  sorts  of  things  (all 
true)  to  make  you  forget  it. 

"G.  B.  S." 


His  wildest  letters  I  do  not  give. 

Had  I  asked  him  why  he  expressed  himself  with 
such  frantic  intensity,  he  would  most  probably  have 
answered,  "You  may  notice  the  same  thing  in  Shakes- 
peare." 

Strong  feeling  exalted  him — but  the  slightest  con- 
tretemps would  turn  his  fantastic  adoration  into  al- 
most alarming  abuse. 

When  my  illness  was  over,  the  real  friendship 
which  exists  to-day  was  between  us. 


344    MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

This  funny  incident  happened  when  I  was  nearly 
well  again,  but  not  yet  able  to  walk. 

Joey  insisted  that  he  could  make  me  walk  in  five 
minutes  and  jump  in  ten.  We  went  for  a  drive  to 
Richmond  Park,  and  on  the  way  he  told  me  about 
physical  exercises,  and  the  force  of  will  on  the  play 
of  human  muscles.  We  drew  up  before  a  low  bench, 
he  got  out,  helped  me  out,  and  said,  "Watch  me." 
With  this  he  doubled  himself  up,  his  Aquascutum 
playing  in  the  wind,  and  said  "You  jump  like  this" 
as  he  leapt  on  to  the  seat.  I  bent  and  tried  to  spring, 
but  it  was  no  use;  I  could  not  move.  Again  gestic- 
ulating and  explaining,  he  leaped  a  second  time 
triumphantly  on  to  the  seat!  Mr.  John  Burns,  M. 
P.,  passed  by  at  this  moment  in  an  open  brougham. 

I  have  never  heard  whether  Mr.  Burns  has  al- 
luded to  this  extraordinary  exhibition! 

One  day  two  lovely  American  girls  came  to  see 
me.  Joey  called  at  the  same  time.  I  was  out. 
When  I  returned  all  three  were  lying  face  down- 
wards on  the  floor.  He  was  explaining  the  beauty 
and  profit  of  some  Swedish  exercises. 

I  remember  a  young  society  lady  asking  him  at  my 
house  humbly  and  politely  if  she  might  act  a  play 
of  his  for  a  charity  performance.  "No:  no  one 
can  play  my  plays  who  cannot  walk  a  tight-rope!" 
She  replied  sweetly,  "I  can  do  double  splits," 
and  straightway  did  them.  Joey  stared  in  amaze- 
ment. 

Some  years  later,  in  his  play  Pygmaliorij  he  sue- 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     345 

ceeded  in  making  me  exclaim  ''bloody"*  nightly  be- 
fore a  thousand  people — he  thought  to  conquer  my 
pre-Raphaelite  instinct. 

I  invented  a  Cockney  accent  and  created  a  human 
"Eliza  Doolittle"  f  for  him:  and  because  the  last  act 
of  the  play  did  not  travel  across  the  footlights  with 
as  clear  dramatic  sequence  as  the  preceeding  acts — 
owing  entirely  to  the  fault  of  the  author — he  declared 
I  might  be  able  to  play  a  tune  with  one  finger,  but 
a  full  orchestral  score  was  Greek  to  me. 

Some  wept  at  the  finish  of  this  play,  for  no  one 
knew  what  had  happened  to  the  two  characters  they 
had  grown  to  love. 

After  all — Elijah,  went  to  heaven  in  a  chariot — 
you  must  end  your  story  somehow. 

Later,  he  wrote  the  end  of  the  story  of  "Eliza 
Doolittle";  when  he  found  I  had  not  read  it.  He 
sent  me  the  following  letter: 

"7th  March,  1917 
".   .  .  There  are  four  depths  of  illiteracy,  each  deeper 
than  the  one  before : 

I.  The  illiteracy  of  H I . 

IL  The  illiteracy  of  those  illiterate  enough  not  to 

know  that  he  was  illiterate. 
in.  The  illiteracy  of  those  who  have  never  read  my 

works. 
IV.  The     illiteracy     of     'Eliza     Doolittle,'     who 
couldn't  even  read  the  end  of  her  own  story. 

*  Sir  Herbert  Tree  implored  me  to  "cut"  the  word,  but,  if  I  must  say 
it,  to  say  it  "beautifully." 

t  The   heroine   of  Pygmalion. 


346     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

"There  is  only  one  person  alive  who  is  such  a  Monster 
of  Illiteracy  as  to  combine  these  four  illiteracies  in  her 
single  brain.  And  I,  the  greatest  living  Master  of  Let- 
ters, made  a  Perfect  Spectacle  of  myself  with  her,  before 
all  Europe. 

"G.  B.  S." 

If  an  artist  has  a  personality  that  will  force  its  way 
through,  spoiling  the  effect  of  Joey's  brilliant  dia- 
logue— he  shudders  and  laughs  murderously.  "Tree 
old  chap,  must  you  be  treacly?"  he  said  at  a  rehearsal 
of  Pygmalion  before  the  company  and  "stage 
hands";  nobody  laughed;  they  knew  death  should 
have  been  Joey's  punishment. 

And  he  thought  to  cheer  me  when  he  remarked, 
"Good  God;  you  are  forty  years  too  old  for  'Eliza'; 
sit  still,  and  it  is  not  so  noticeable." 

To  "sit  still"  with  your  hands  folded  in  your  lap 
for  three-quarters  of  an  hour,  a  glare  of  indignation 
in  your  eyeballs,  while  somebody  else  for  the  same 
length  of  time  stands  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  and 
another  sits  in  an  armchair — nobody  budging  ex- 
cept for  some  practical  purpose  of  turning  up  a 
light,  or  picking  up  a  newspaper,  or  ringing  a  bell — 
is  Joey's  idea  of  perfect  stage  management. 

His  genius  and  passion  for  debate  often  cut  across 
the  rhythmical  movement  of  his  drama,  harming 
the  natural  sequence  of  emotion,  and  making  the 
artist  feel  his  own  imagination  is  but  an  interruption. 

Don't  think:  I  have  thought  for  you,  is  Joey's  at- 
titude to  us  poor  players. 


< 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

Sir  James  Barrie 

1  CALLED  him  ^'Jim"  when  I  wrote  to  him,  and 
when  I  saw  him,  I  said  "Hullo!"  I  never 
called  him  "Mr.  Barrie,"  or  "Sir  James."  I 
do  not  know  why. 

I  blessed  him  most  at  a  rehearsal  of  The  Adored 
One. 

The  producer  having  put  his  arm  round  my  waist 
said,  "No,  my  dear,  you  go  here,  and  then  you  turn 
there,  and  you  say  your  line  like  this" :  I  grew  silent 
as  doom,  cold  as  the  snows  on  Fuji-Yama. 

Out  of  the  stalls  on  to  the  stage,  with  his  pipe  in 
his  mouth  and  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head,  came 
the  author,  and,  with  that  Scotch  accent  that  leaves 
you  cool  and  calm,  said:  "I  think  perhaps  she  will 
do  better  if  you  leave  her  alone." 

During  the  first  night  of  The  Adored  One — 
what  a  lovely  part  Leonora  was — he  came  into  my 
dressing  room  and  told  me  no  one  had  ever  worked 
for  him  more  beautifully  before.  Leonora  pushed 
a  man  out  of  a  railway  carriage  because  her  little 
girl  had  a  cold  and  he  wouldn't  shut  the  window. 
She  says  it  over  and  over  again  during  her  trial  for 
murder  in  spite  of  all  the  efforts  of  judge,  counsel, 

347 


348     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

jury,   and  friends  to  stop  her.     In  the  end  she  is 
declared  "Not  guilty." 

This  little  story  Barrie  made  into  a  play  of  magical 
tenderness,  fun,  and  beauty. 

Pamela  Lytton,*  Dolly  Gladstone, f  Beo,  and  I 
went  to  look  for  him  after  the  performance.  We 
went  to  his  flat;  he  was  not  there.  We  went  to  the 
Savoy;  he  was  not  there.  Then  back  again  to  his 
rooms;  he  was  not  there.  We  looked  at  Joey's  win- 
dows opposite — all  was  dark;  then  back  again  we 
went  to  the  Savoy  and  had  supper,  then  once  more 
to  Jim's  rooms:  this  time  we  found  him. 

With  what  gentleness  and  dearness  he  received 
us — and  how  proud  we  were  to  talk  with  him  at  that 
time  of  night! 

Whenever  I  am  with  him  I  feel  a  monstrous  being. 
I  want  to  be  a  little  child  and  have  him  tell  me  about 
things  that  only  he  knows.  It  is  the  guilelessness 
and  trust  of  a  child  he  treasures.  I  fancy  he  winks 
one  eye  at  the  wisdom  of  the  grown-ups. 

I  have  a  desire  to  be  without  a  flaw  in  his  presence. 
This  must  be  because  I  love  and  admire  him  very 
much. 

But  it  is  when  life  hits  you  between  the  eyes  that 
Jim  shows  the  stufif  he's  made  of. 

The  following  is  his  answer  to  a  letter  of  mine, 
asking  his  permission  to  publish  some  letters  of  his 
to  me. 

*  Countess   of   Lytton. 
t  Viscountess  Gladstone. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     349 

"3,  Adelphi  Terrace  House, 

"November,  192 1. 
"My  dear  Stella, 

"I  am  much  elated  to  find  that  you  have  preserved  for 
so  long  those  two  old  letters  of  mine.  Is  the  faint  per- 
fume that  I  fondly  think  comes  from  them  really  laven- 
der? And  if  it  is  (I  wish  I  hadn't  thought  of  this),  is 
it  lavender  meant  for  me,  or  were  my  little  missives 
merely  kept  so  near  the  beautiful  G.  B.  S.  budget  that 
in  time  they  stole  some  of  the  sweetness  in  which  I  am 
sure  his  lie  wrapped? 

"This  misgiving  has  come  upon  me  suddenly,  and  I 
am  rather  dashed  by  it.  My  two  little  Benjamins  are 
shrinking  before  my  eyes.  All  I  see  clearly  now  is  the 
sweet  Shaw  bundle,  encircled  by  a  pale  blue  ribbon.  I 
doubt  whether  my  pair  were  preserved  intentionally.  I 
daresay  they  got  into  his  lot  by  mistake,  and  just  fell 
out  one  day  when  the  ribbon  burst.  Or  an  instinct  of 
self-preservation  had  made  them  creep  in  there.  They 
probably  thought  that  sometime,  when  you  sat  in  the 
dusk  with  the  G.  B.  S.  bundle  in  your  lap,  you  might  in- 
advertently fondle  them  also. 

"All  this  is  a  bitter  pill  for  me,  who  in  the  first  thrill 
of  seeing  them  again  had  hoped  deliriously  that  you  kept 
them  because  you  could  not  part  from  them.  I  con- 
ceived you  (mad  fool  that  I  was)  carrying  them  every- 
where in  a  gold  bag  attached  to  your  wrist,  constantly 
being  late  for  dinner  because  you  must  have  one  more 
peep  at  them,  climbing  ladders  for  them  when  the  house 
went  on  fire.  I  was  proud  to  feel  that  (even  though 
you  could  not  read  them)  they  were  a  solace  to  you 
when  you  were  depressed  and  a  big  brother  if  you  were 
almost  reckless.     A  nauseous  draught. 

"Another  thing  strikes  me — that  you  preserved  them 


350     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

to  ask  me  to  read  them  to  you  some  day.  I  tell  you 
flatly  that  I  cannot  read  them.  Even  the  'Stella'  seems 
to  me  (the  more  I  look  at  it)  to  have  an  odd  appearance. 
Hold  It  sideways  and  It  is  more  like  'Beatrice.'  Were 
you  ever  called  'Beatrice'?  A  horrible  sinking  comes 
over  me  that  these  letters  were  never  meant  for  you  at 
all. 

"Even  if  they  were,  there  is  no  proof  nowadays  that 
they  were  written  by  me,  for  the  handwriting  is  en- 
tirely different  from  that  of  this  letter.  I  am  trusting 
that  my  new  superb  penmanship  is  amazing  you,  even  as 
you  gaze  at  It  through  blinding  tears.  The  explanation 
is  that  since  the  days  of  these  two  letters  my  right  hand 
has  gone  on  strike — writer's  cramp — and  I  have  had  to 
learn    to    indite    with    the    left.      Perhaps    these    letters 

CL.    \^<7^}xMjt.    si^^^w^       lo*<^^     cv<£y    vKt    iKid  "Uiie 

ixAj^       W<Av^         \'\<'f^\        ^VUl^^^t       ^  •  M  »fu       CZT   CcU  .    tv<M 

1U1     ^-tVL      u-A^      ^rfta^     U     Yrvi   ^    Ipra     "^ki 
lv<vU      "Wit '^c^s        ff\       y^'i    "tw^        U.TUn«^   vwa 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     351 

did  it;  the  hand  that  wrote  them  then  grandly  destroyed 
its  powers,  as  the  true  loyalist  smashed  his  glass  when 
he  had  drunk  a  royal  health.  At  all  events,  we  scarcely 
know  the  right  hand  nowadays — we  pass  the  time  of  day 
and  so  on,  but  nothing  more.  At  first  the  left  was  but 
an  amanuensis.  I  dictated  to  it,  but  I  had  to  think  down 
the  right  arm. 

"But  now  the  left  is  my  staff.  Also  I  find  that  the 
person  who  writes  with  his  left  is  quite  another  pair  of 
shoes  from  the  one  who  employs  his  right;  he  has  other 
standards,  sleeps  differently,  has  novel  views  on  the 
antology  of  being,  and  is  a  more  sinister  character. 
Anything  curious  or  uncomfortable  about  the  play  of 
Mary  Rose  arises  from  its  having  been  a  product  of  the 
left  hand.  And  now  the  question  inevitably  pops  up: 
What  justification  has  my  left  to  give  permission  to  pub- 
lish letters  written  by  that  other  fellow,  my  right? 
They  don't  agree  about  you  at  all  (right  says  you  make 
people  love  and  writhe).  They  don't  agree  about  me, 
they  even  hold  contrary  opinion  as  to  what  the  letters 
are  about.  Left  says  that  unless  there  is  a  cypher  in 
the  letters  it  can't  understand  why  you  want  to  print 
them.  (By  the  way  as  that  is  what  this  letter  is  about, 
you  can  print  them  if  you  like.)  Left  has  the  vaguest 
recollections  of  the  doings,  apparently  referred  to  in  the 
letters,  when  you  visited  me  in  order  to  annoy  the 
blue-eyed  one  across  the  way.  On  the  other  hand,  what 
memories  do  these  doings  recall  to  right,  who  is  at 
present  jogging  me  to  let  it  get  hold  of  a  pen  again. 
The  pretty  things  it  wishes  to  say  to  you !  but  left  won't 
pass  them  on. 

'Ah,  me!  You  and  G.  B.  S.,  and  the  days  when  I 
was  a  father  to  you  both. 

"But  enough  of  this.     I  can't  pretend  any  more — not 


352     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

for  long.  Left  likes  you  every  whit  as  much  as  right 
does,  as  does  the  somewhat  battered  frame  to  which  they 
are  for  the  moment  still  attached.  And  we  all  send  you 
our  love,  and  wish  for  you  the  best  kind  of  happiness 
and  courage  for  any  evil  hour,  and  may  the  book  be 
worthy  of  you. 

'Tours, 
"J.  M.  B." 

"Island  of  Harris,  N.  B. 
"7th  September,  19 12 
"Dear  Stella, 

"I  thought  when  I  saw  your  nice  little  monogram  that 
it  meant  you  no  longer  adored  G.  B.  S.  And  that 
you  had  crossed  the  street  again  to  me.  You  see,  I 
had  watched  you  (a  bitter  smile  on  my  face)  popping  in 
at  his  door  instead  of  at  mine.  For  the  moment  I  am 
elated,  though  well  I  know  that  you  will  soon  be  off 
with  me  again  and  on  with  him.  He  and  I  live  in  the 
weather  house  with  two  doors,  and  you  are  the  figure 
that  smiles  on  us  and  turns  up  its  nose  at  us  alternately. 
However  I  would  rather  see  you  going  in  at  his  door 
than  not  see  you  at  all,  and  as  you  are  on  elastic  I  know 
that  the  farther  you  go  with  him  the  farther  you  will 
have  to  bound  back.  I  wish  I  had  not  thought  of  this 
because  it  suddenly  fills  me  with  a  scheme  for  a  play 
called  The  Weather  House.  Will  stop  this  letter  pres- 
ently to  think  scheme  out,  but  as  I  see  it  just  now  I  feel 
G.  B.  S.  and  I  must  write  alternate  acts  (according  to 
which  door  you  go  in  at).  When  I  wrote  that,  I  meant 
we  should  each  write  the  acts  in  which  you  were  nice 
to  him,  but  on  reflection  I  am  not  sure  that  I  would  not 
prefer  to  write  of  the  scenes  which  took  place  across 
the  way  and  leave  him  to  write  those  of  No.  3. 

*'I  have  done  no  work  here  except  a  one  act  play,  which 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     353 

striketh  me  as  being  no  great  shakes,  for  the  Duke  of 
York's,  where  a  triple  bill  is  to  be  done,  I  daresay  I'll 
go  on  with  the  other,  but  why,  oh,  why  don't  you  post, 
or,  better,  call  on  Frohman,  as  it  goes  to  him  if  it's 
done?  This  place  is  very  remote — nothing  alive  but 
salmon,  deer,  and  whales,  and  I  return  to  London  in  a 
fortnight,  when  I  hope  this  comedy  of  the  doors  will 
begin  again. 

"Yours, 
"J.  M.  B." 


nw         /—         ^-      -"^-'f^.  ...'>r— ^v**  * 

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354 


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356 


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357 


358     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

"26th  November,  1913. 
"My  dear  Beatrice, 

"It  is  great  that  you  should  be  recovering  so  quickly, 
and  I  am  very  glad.  Mr.  Frohman  arrives  in  London  in 
a  fortnight,  so  the  best  plan  is  to  wait  until  he  comes. 
He  knows  I  want  you,  and  I  hope  it  will  all  be  easily 
arranged.  I  expect  that  after  this  long  rest  your  energy 
will  be  appalling. 

"I  have  some  relations  coming  to-day  to  stay  with  me 
for  a  week,  else  I  would  have  gone  down  to  see  you.  I 
meet  the  other  weather  man  at  times  in  our  street,  and 
ask  after  you  and  see  him  blushing.  I  used  to  find  him 
staring  in  at  the  window  by  the  florist's  shop,  but  now 
he  gazes  at  neckties.  Any  day  he  may  blossom  out  in 
socks,  slips,  and  spats:  'all  for  her,'  as  the  dramatists  say. 
I  now  pause  to  draw  this  picture  of  him  on  my  blotting 
paper. 

"J.  M.  B." 

Someone  else  must  write  about  my  faults.  They 
will,  perhaps,  be  kinder  to  me  than  I  could  be  to  my- 
self. 

But  I  can  say  this, — I  shall  die  wiser  than  I  was 
born.     I  have  le.arned  a  few  things. 


"It  is  mind    that  makes  man,  and  soul  that  makes 
man  angel."  .... 


It  is  far  easier  for  men  and  women  of  the  world, 
with  keen  knowledge  of  world-values,  to  see  through 
the  glamour  of  the  artist;  than  it  is  for  the  artist — 
not  concerned  about  world-values,  and  hampered  by 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     359 

imagination — to  see  through  the  glamour  of  the  men 
and  women  of  the  world. 


People  we  love  must  be  loved  as  they  are.  It  is 
a  want  both  of  wisdom  and  courage  on  our  part — 
a  sort  of  drug — this  wilful  blindness,  to  blame  them, 
because  they  fail  our  vision  of  them.  .  .  . 


I  do  not  like  unreal  people;  but  it  is  dangerous  to 
interfere  with  their  pretence.  Slowly  a  monster  may 
face  you,  and  turn  and  rend  you. 


I  thought  once  that  untruthful  people  would  at 
least  listen  to  truth — not  a  bit  of  it. 


Want  of  interest  and  curiosity  in  things  that  are 
ugly  leaves  us  ignorant  of  a  great  deal  of  useful 
knowledge. 


I  cannot  see  the  resurrection  of  cold,  callous,  and 
unaffectionate  hearts. 


I  feel  with  Robert  Louis  Stevenson — I  think  it  was 
he  who  said — "The  greatest  beggar  is  the  man  who 
has  no  words." 


Youth  is  harmed  by  having  wisdom  thrust  upon  it. 
Youth  must  gather  wisdom  slowly,  in  laughter  and 
tears. 


360     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 


I  remember  a  little  bird  beautifully  made  of  wool 
my  mother  kept  on  her  window  sill.  I  said,  "Dar- 
ling, that  is  so  dirty  and  old,  why  don't  you  throw 
it  away?" 

"No;  I  cannot,  someone  took  so  much  trouble  to 
make  it." 

It  is  just  that  effort  to  make  "beautifully,"  which 
Js  to  "give"  and  is  the  greater  part  of  inspiration. 

"To  make,"  "to  take,"  and  "to  have"  is  the  devil's 
luck. 

This  is  a  good  foundation  for  art  criticism. 


English  dignity  and  reserve  do  not  impress  me — 
but  that  they  are  clever  without  cunning,  and  meet 
injury  without  treachery — that  is  what  I  love. 


I  have  met  a  reserved  and  pompous  dignity  that 
hid  a  murky  mind. 


I  like  butlers  to  be  official ;  and  those  who  nurse  the 
sick,  cheerful.  Superficial  amiability  I  dislike;  but 
an  intelligent,  straightforward,  and  frank  manner, 
backed  by  instinctive  breeding,  is  the  best  all  over 
the  world. 


When  the  animal  nature  in  man  is  completely 
dominant,  we  may  be  sure  that  the  mind  is  diseased. 

An  American  doctor  told  me  nobody  would  be 
evil  if  their  brain  molecules  were  normal. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     361 


I  once  asked  a  kind  veterinary  surgeon  why  dogs 
were  so  much  nicer  than  people.  His  answer  was, 
"Nearly  all  bad  dogs  are  drowned,  all  mad  dogs  are 
shot!"  And  I  do  believe  I  heard  myself  saying, 
"That  is  how  it  should  be  with  us" — but  that  is  God's 
business. 


There  is  an  odd  selfishness  and  egotism  about  ac- 
tors and  actresses,  and  most  public  people.  Public 
life  forces  this  upon  them. 

We  cannot  perform,  unless  our  trust  and  faith  in 
ourselves,  our  power,  our  taste,  our  looks,  our  voice, 
our  movements,  and  our  own  thought,  are  for  the 
moment  paramount.  If  we  hesitate  or  feel  humili- 
ated, we  are  lost;  just  a  few  are  blessed  with  the  re- 
bound of  the  brave  creative  spirit;  they  are  perhaps 
less  selfish  and  vain,  because  they  are  more  sure. 


There  is  no  doubt  artists  need  much  sympathetic 
and  vital  companionship,  and  care  of  a  particular 
kind. 

I  remember  a  story  a  friend  told  me  of  a  valuable 
cob  she  lent  to  some  gay  friends  with  her  dogcart. 
The  creature  knew  she  had  to  go  well  that  day,  and 
off  she  flew  like  the  wind,  with  her  burden. 

When  they  returned  in  the  late  afternoon  the  cob 
fell  at  the  door.  The  people  were  ignorant — selfish 
— they  had  over-driven  her. 


362     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

I  would  say  to  everyone,  "Cherish  your  'cobs,'  your 
racers,  your  singing  birds  and  your  artists.  .  .  ." 


I  agree  with  a  friend  of  mine  who  says,  we  ought 
to  take  off  our  hats  to  all  human  beings  who  have  ar- 
rived at  the  age  of  forty,  acknowledged  sane,  morally 
and  mentally. 


It  was  Abraham  Lincoln  who  said,  the  one  thing 
he  could  not  pardon  was  disloyalty  in  his  own 
house — 

It  is  a  dreadful  thing,  but  it  can  be  done. 


The  two  best  things  to  know  I  learned  last:  the 
meaning  of  the  Lord's  Prayer  and  the  word  For- 
give  

A  friend  of  mine  told  me  a  story  of  a  woman  she 
saw  praying  in  a  cathedral  abroad,  kneeling  with 
upturned  face  before  a  crucifix. 

My  friend  heard  her  words:  "J'accepte  tout! 
J'accepte  tout!  J'accepte  tout!" 

When  we  can  say  that,  we  are  indeed  "gay,  and  fit 
for  Paradise." 

DD.  Lyttelton  is  among  the  friends  I  love  who 
neither  spoil  nor  flatter  me. 

She  never  hesitates  to  tell  me  my  faults:  "I  wish, 
Stella  darling,  people  did  not  call  you  'difficult';  but 
they  do,  and  you  are;  do  be  careful." 

She  was  the  first  to  encourage  me  to  write,  and 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     363 

she  will  be  the  first  to  say  how  amateurish  my  book 
is! 

DD.  has  a  wonderful  gift  of  affection,  though  I 
have  thought  she  is  sometimes  too  ready  with  her 
"there  are  faults  on  both  sides." 

She  is  extraordinarily  generous,  but  not  in  the 
least  extravagant.  She  would  pawn  her  jewels  for  a 
friend — but  wait  until  someone  she  loved  grumbled, 
before  buying  herself  a  quite  inexpensive  hat. 

To  help  a  friend  in  grief  and  trouble,  she  will 
take  endless  and  exhaustive  pains. 

My  foolish  belief  that  things  are  what  they  appear, 
and  my  faith  in  "instinct" — the  only  gift  given  us 
for  nothing — and  my  feeling  that  compromise  is  a 
form  of  cowardice — she  often  makes  me  ashamed  of. 
And  yet,  when  she  says,  "Stella,  you  are  so  absolutely 
ignorant  of  the  world,"  I  am  content. 

I  have  heard  her  criticised;  I  think  this  is  because 
she  has  no  patience  with  affected  charm,  and  takes 
no  interest  in  the  "merely  smart,"  and  is  very  critical. 

Her  joy — when  Sir  Edwin  Lutyens  showed  her 
how  her  house  could  be  divided  in  half,  so  that  her 
son  might  marry  the  girl  he  loved,  and  have  a  home 
ready  to  bring  her  to — no  friend  of  hers  will  ever 
forget. 

DD.  loves  the  theatre  more  than  I  do ;  she  will 
go  in  a  'bus,  on  a  wet  night,  and  sit  in  the  pit,  happily 
watching  indifferent  actors  in  an  indifferent  play. 

She  has  genius  for  organisation — a  passionate  love 


364     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

of  literature,  and  is  interested  in  the  whole  round 
world,  and — in  the  echo  from  the  world  beyond. 

Some  day,  I  fancy  she  will  write  a  fine  play — per- 
haps, for  me. 

Margaret  and  Jack  Mackail  were  blessed  in  many 
ways — a  pathway  made  ready  for  their  feet — a  light 
to  guide  them. 

I  remember  Pamela  Wyndham  *  saying  to  me  at 
"Clouds":  "It  would  be  an  honour  to  black  their 
boots." 

Intelligence,  goodness,  and  simple  beauty  ruled 
their  lives,  leaving  no  room  for  fools  and  madmen — 
and  the  world  is  full  of  fools  and  madmen. 

I  think  these  few  letters  show  the  tenderness  of 
their  early  love  for  me,  and  mine  for  them. 

"Rottingdean, 
"25th  December,  1894 
"Dearest, 

"...  Are  you  really  thinking  of  going  to  America? 
I  suppose  there  is  something  to  be  said  for  it,  though  one 
can't  think  of  anything  except  how  one  would  miss  you 
and  the  queer  beautiful  radiance  that  goes  about  with 
you. 

"I  wish  you  the  best  Christmas  wishes,  and  my  love  to 
Pat  and  the  dear  little  boy. 

"Jack." 

"30th  September,  1895. 
"Dearest  Stella, 

*'I  forgot  to  give  you  my  book  last  night.  How  we 
bullied  you,  and  how  well  you  bore  it! 

*  Now   Viscountess   Grey  of  Falloden. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     365 

"When  one  has  lost  one's  first  nerve  and  audacity  (a 
thing  that  happens  to  everybody)  it  is  only  by  'style'  that 
it  can  be  replaced.  That  is  the  second  education  in  art, 
and  a  harder  one,  but  in  the  end  more  fruitful,  than  the 
first. 

"My  love. 
"Jack." 

"i2th  May,  1894. 
"Darling, 

"We  don't  come  home  till  Saturday  19th,  and  the 
children  being  at  'The  Grange'  this  house  will  be  empty 
and  glad  to  receive  you  and  Pat  if  you  should  find  your- 
selves houseless  a  few  nights.  Please  remember  that 
I  shall  leave  my  latchkey  with  mother,  who  will  give  it  to 
you  if  you  take  shelter  here.   .   .   . 

"About  Duse — it  was  a  great  disappointment  to  find 
that  she  did  not  appeal  to  us  at  all;  her  naturalness,  if 
that  is  what  it  is,  wore  one  out,  and  my  cry  was,  'More 
art!  More  art!'  I.  sat  like  a  stone  between  two  melting 
spectators  whose  secret  strings  vibrated  at  her  every  word 
and  gesture;  it  is  so  personal,  isn't  it?  I  very  much 
want  you  to  see  her  and  to  talk  about  her  with  you. 

"Ellen  Terry  says  she  is  the  biggest  of  all.  I  feel  left 
out  in  the  cold,  not  to  grasp  her  greatness.  Duval's 
father  was  more  comic  than  anything  ever  before  seen 
on  the  stage,  but  the  audience  behaved  with  great  self- 
restraint. 

•      •      • 

"Margaret." 

"20th  September,  1896. 
"My  own  Girl, 

"I  wonder  so  much  how  all  is  going  with  you,  and  how 


366     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

Beo  IS,  and  how  plans  are,  and  when  you  will  be  in  Lon- 
don and  we  can  see  you. 

"Oh  I  wish  I  could  give  you  the  peace  and  heavenly 
happiness  Clare  makes — I  really  think  it  would  be  happy 
for  you  to  be  with  her;  like  a  tender  little  poultice  to 
your  worried  heart.  She  baffles  all  words.  You  must 
come  and  cuddle  her,  and  see  her  gay  innocent  smile, 
and  hear  her  conversation.   .   .   . 

"I  am  in  London,  can  I  do  anything  for  you?  .   .   . 

"Now  that  we  are  settled,  the  summer  with  its  long 
hot  days,  and  you  rushing  in,  and  me  in  your  nightgowns 
seems  all  a  dream.  By  the  way,  give  me  an  address  to 
send  them  to  please,  and  do  you  like  pink  or  blue  ribbon  in 
them?  I  entreat  you  not  to  say,  'Keep  them,'  in  your 
generosity,  for  they  are  no  use  to  me,  now,  and  not  as 
comfy  as  my  own;  but  they  were  just  salvation  at  the 
time,  and  it  was  only  you  in  your  wonderful  realising 
sympathy  who  could  have  thought  of  such  a  thing.  The 
teagowns,  too,  were  a  blessing:  and  oh,  the  turquoises 
on  that  yellow  one.   .   .   . 

"My  love  and  thoughts  are  all  round  and  about  you, 
and  will  be  with  you  in  that  awful  country,  darling. 

"Your  loving 
"Margaret." 

"31st  December,   1894. 
"Darling, 

"A  little  line  of  blessing  on  you,  all  next  year,  and  of 
thankfulness  to  you  for  all  you  have  been  of  illumination 
and  beauty  to  us  both,  this  year. 

"Loving 
"Margaret." 

Frances  Horner*  was  another  friend  who  never 

♦Lady   Horner. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     367 

flattered  me;  and  often  delighted  in  teasing  me. 
Long  ago,  I  spent  happy  days  with  her  at  "Mells." 

I  do  not  fancy  she  really  cared  for  the  theatre,  or 
appreciated  the  strain  and  stress  of  the  life.  It  was 
simply  in  the  splendid  kindness  of  her  heart  that  she 
stretched  out  her  arms  to  me.  I  admired  her  tremen- 
dously and  her  lovely  home. 

I  remember  her  taking  me  out  in  a  stanhope  and 
pair  in  a  thunderstorm.  The  horses  stood  on  their 
hind  legs,  while  she  laughed  merrily,  assuring  me 
her  horses  always  stood  on  their  hind  legs,  and  they 
loved  thunderstorms,  especially  the  lightning. 

To  swim  in  the  lake  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden, 
generally  at  a  spot  where  it  was  forty  feet  deep,  was 
the  family's  great  amusement  in  warm  weather. 
''It  is  quite  easy,  Stella.  Here's  a  bathing  dress; 
jump  in!"  And  Sir  John  said:  "I'll  help  you; 
don't  be  frightened!" 

I  jumped  in,  and  threw  my  arms  tight  around  his 
neck;  we  both  nearly  drowned.  Frances  pulled 
me  out  amidst  peals  of  laughter  from  the  children. 
How  young  we  were! 

She  has  a  readiness  and  wit  amounting  to  genius, 
and  a  gift  for  housekeeping  that  beggars  descrip- 
tion. 

With  a  smile  and  a  few  sweet  words  she  could 
within  a  few  hours,  get  her  cook  to  serve  a  dinner 
to  twelve  of  the  most  distinguished  people  in  Lon- 
don, and  every  dish  could  be  taken  as  a  personal  com- 
pliment. 


368     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

She  laughs  without  noise,  and  weeps  with  no  sug- 
gestion of  hysterics.  She  can  speak  of  the  dead, 
making  them  live  before  you,  and  as  she  smilingly 
tells  of  their  cleverness,  their  fun,  the  tears  fill  her 
eyes  and  roll  down  her  cheeks — dear  Frances. 

And  there  were  our  talks  at  night,  too.  She  is 
a  friend  who  gives  confidence  for  confidence. 

I  can  see  her  sitting  by  the  fire  in  my  bedroom, 
with  her  hair  like  fairy  gold,  her  hand  pushing 
through  it,  lifting  it,  an  aureole  of  sunbeams  around 
her  head,  as  she  says:  "Stella,  life  is  like  that;  it's 
just  a  matter  of  fate  whom  we  love.  It  may  be  a 
good  man,  or  it  may  be  a  bad  man ;  it  may  be  a  fool, 
or  it  may  the  right  one." 

Mark,  her  youngest  son,  as  a  very  small  child, 
made  you  love  and  respect  the  little  world  of  his 
own,  where  the  coachman  was  "king,"  and  the  maid 
who  used  to  look  after  him  "queen." 

I  heard  him,  as  quite  a  little  boy,  say  to  the  coach- 
man with  inimitable  dignity:  "And  are  you  a  married 
man?" 

At  a  certain  large  luncheon  party  at  Buckingham 
Gate  the  door  opened,  and  Mark  came  in  with  a  tiny 
pistol  and  some  small  pink  caps.  He  walked 
solemnly  round  the  table,  firing  a  little  cap  at  each 
guest.  The  guests,  thinking  it  polite,  no  doubt, 
took  no  notice  of  him,  much  to  Mark's  disappoint- 
ment. Frances  smiled  indulgently.  Mark  came 
up  to  me  and  fired.  I  quietly  slipped  off  my  chair 
on  to   the  floor — dead.     I   remember  his  mother's 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     369 

smile  of  gratitude.  From  that  moment  Mark  and 
I  were  friends.  .  .  . 

And  the  beauty  of  Edward  and  Cicely  and  Kath- 
erine — 

The  happiness  of  those  days  in  that  lovely  garden 
at  '^Mells"  is  blurred  by  what  lies  between.  .  .  . 

On  the  afternon  of  the  day,  when  on  every  pla- 
card there  was  the  one  word  "WAR"  I  went  to  see 
Frances;  I  remember  her  bending  head  on  my  shoul- 
der and  her  heart-breaking  tears.  .  .  . 

Beo  was  in  America.  I  cabled  to  him  to  come 
and  help.  He  had  anticipated  me;  his  answer  was: 
"Have  arranged,  sailing.' 


V 


The  late  Lord  Wemyss  was  nearly  eighty  years 
of  age,  when  I  first  knew  him. 

His  aflfection  and  his  letters,  and  his  interest  in  my 
life,  and  my  children  meant  a  great  deal  to  me. 

I  remember  once  taking  a  famous  actress  to  lunch 
with  him,  and  how  dreadfully  upset  he  was  about 
her  fingernails — pointed,  reddened  an  astonishing 
vermilion — they  caught  his  eye  unmercifully.  I 
explained  to  him  afterwards  that  it  was  the  fashion, 
but  he  was  distressed.  He  said:  "Nothing  should 
be  a  fashion  that  disturbs  conversation  and  attracts 
the  eye  from  the  human  countenance." 

Courtesy  was  the  breath  of  his  being.  I  know  no 
one  now  who  makes  every  woman  they  address  feel 
a  queen. 

At  Gosford,  I  believe  my  little  dog  was  the  only 


370     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

dog  that  was  ever  allowed  to  sit  at  the  table  at  meals. 


As  a  child  I  always  felt  I  was  ugly. 

When  I  was  about  fifteen  I  remember  an  old 
friend  of  ours  saying  to  me:  ''Child,  your  face  is 
silver  like  the  moon ;  if  I  were  a  young  man,  it  would 
make  me  weep."  I  thought  he  was  silly;  now  I 
think  he  must  have  been  a  very  nice  man,  with  the 
heart  of  a  poet. 

I  remember  my  mother  telling  me  I  had  red  hair 
when  I  was  born,  and  how  glad  she  was. 

A  Canadian  lady  wrote  to  me  some  years  ago: — 

"I  do  not  feel  that  photographs  can  do  you  justice. 
You  will  laugh  when  I  tell  you  that  more  than  half  your 
facial  expression  comes  from  the  nervous  texture  of  your 
skin — your  face,  or,  rather,  your  skin  in  moments  of 
excitement  is  luminous,  and  gives  a  curiously  beautiful 
contour  to  your  face.  There  are  little  reflected  lights 
about  brow  and  eye  that  no  photo  can  give.  I  am  so 
puzzled  to  know  if  it  is  the  simple  beauty  of  your  char- 
acter, or  the  subtle  complex  personality  of  your  artist  self, 
that  attracts  me." 

My  face  is  not  a  "mask" — it  speaks  as  I  speak,  so 
I  have  some  respect  for  it. 

I  look  my  best  when  I  am  very  ill,  which  means 
the  bones  of  my  face  are  good  and  my  features  are 
placed  well.  My  hands  are  Italian  in  shape.  "Aunt 
Madeline"  took  a  plaster  cast  of  one  for  me  and  Lord 


ELIZA   DOOLITTLE  IN 


"pygmalion" 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     371 

Wemyss  had   it  done   into   bronze,    and   the   hand 
looks  lovely. 

The  following  poem  to  me  was  written  by  a  well- 
known  London  manager.  His  wife  gave  me  her  per- 
mission to  publish  all  the  poems  he  wrote  to  me. 
Unfortunately,  the  book  they  were  in  has  disap- 
peared— she  asked  me  for  it  and  I  thought  I  gave 
it  to  her,  but  she  says  "no" : 

To  Beatrice. 

Come  in  a  dream,  beloved,  if  thy  feet 

Are  weary,  thro'  the  valley  of  the  night; 
Sure  are  the  wings  of  drowsy  thought,  and  fleet 

To  bear  thee  through  the  shadows  to  the  light. 
Grey  is  the  world  between  us,  let  us  go 

Far  to  the  land  where  only  lovers  are : 
All  day  the  hours  like  laughing  waters  flow 

And  all  the  night  beneath  a  patient  star. 

There  is  a  garden  where  the  echoes  treasure 

Thy  footfall  as  an  old-remembered  song. 
The  ilex  and  the  cypresses  will  pleasure 

To  swathe  thee  in  their  shade.     O,  stay  not  long! 
The  oleanders  and  the  roses  wait 

Thy  coming,  and  so  soon  the  night  is  past, 
Come,  come  to-night;  wide  open  stands  the  gate, 

And  Death  must  close  it,  with  our  lives,  at  last. 

Enter,  and  wander  down  the  winding  stair 

Of  moon-kissed  marble,   shadowy  with  time; 
There  is  thy  home,  and  thou  belongest  there, 


372     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

With  all  the  beauty  of  the  southern  clime. 
The  night  is  warm  as  kisses  to  the  cheek, 

Sweet  to  the  ear  as  when  a  song  is  still, 
Or  the  thrilled  hush  when  thou  hast  ceased  to  speak 

And  all  the  world  is  waiting  on  thy  will. 

O,  blind  me  with  thy  kisses,  let  me  swoon 

Into  the  dark,  and  glide  into  a  sleep. 
Till  moth-white  as  the  early  morning  moon 

Thy  face  appear,  and  I  behold  the  peep 
Of  wonder-witching  dawn  within  thine  eyes 

And  feel  thy  breath  like  soft  winds  from  the  South 
Stir  me  to  shake  off  slumber  and  arise 

And  kneel  and  kiss  the  daybreak  of  thy  mouth. 

August,   19  lO. 

These  lines  were  written  by  Madame  Sarah  Bern- 
hardt and  Monsieur  Maeterlinck  in  my  birthday 
book: 

Je  suis  tres  tres  heureuse  d'avoir  vn  I'interieure 
de  cet  etre  exquis,  dont  Tame  est  aussi  jolie  que  le 
visage,  et  qui  porte  le  nom  de  Beatrice  Stella  Campbell. 

Sarah  Bernhardt. 

1902. 

Elle  est  un  de  ces  etres  qui  savent  reunir  les  ames 
a  leur  sourse;  et  lorsqu'elle  se  trouve  la  on  ne 
sent  plus  rien  entre  lui  et  ce  qui  la  verite, 

('Aglavain  et  Selysette") 
M.  Maeterlinck. 

In  June,  1913,  Sir  George  Alexander  revived  The 
Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     373 

In  the  autumn  of  this  year  Jenny  Cornwallis  West 
divorced  George. 

On  April  6th  of  the  following  year  we  married. 
The  decree  absolute  had  been  held  up  for  three 
months,   owing   to  business   reasons. 

It  looked  odd  that  we  married  only  a  few  hours 
after  the  decree  was  finally  made  absolute,  but  Pyg- 
malion was  to  be  produced  in  five  days'  time,  and 
then  there  would  be  no  chance  of  a  few  days'  quiet 
together.  .  .  . 

Amongst  hundreds  of  telegrams  and  letters  of  con- 
gratulation, I  quote  a  few  which  show  friends  felt 
the  marriage  might  bring  us  happiness. 

"Wednesday 
"Oh,  my  dear, 

"My  joy  was  great,  and  I  feel  so  interested  in  life 
when  I  think  of  you,  at  last  brilliantly  contented,  too. 

"Soon  I  hope  to  see  happy  faces. 

"How  glad  I  am  he  talked  to  me  at  Alice  Keppel's. 
It  makes  all  the  difference  to  have  heard  from  him  what 
adoration  and  devotion  he  has  for  you. 

"His  people  must  love  him  because  of  his  'expression,'' 
if  nothing  else,  and  if  they  love  him  they  must  be  glad  to 
know  how  happy  he  Is. 

"Bless  you  both-  "V.  R."  * 

"16,  Lower  Berkeley  Street,  W. 
"A  thousand  loving  wishes,  darling,  and  may  you  have 

*The    Duchess    of    Rutland. 


374     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

much  of  the  happiness  you  deserve  so  well.     I  thought  so 
much  of  you  yesterday,  and  send  you  all  my  love. 

*'Your  loving 

"Frances."  t 

"Stella,  darling, 

"All  my  love  and  thoughts  to  you.     Bless  you. 

Rachel."  * 

Beo  loved  George  w^ith  much  affection.  Stella 
wrote  from  Africa : — 

"East  Africa  Protectorate, 

"April  loth,  19 14. 
"Darling  Mother, 

"Your  telegram  which  came  on  Wednesday,  was  a 
great  surprise  to  us,  as  you  can  imagine,  but  I  can't  tell 
you  how  glad  it  has  made  us,  to  be  able  to  think  of  you  as 
happy,  and  no  longer  lonely. 

"I  am  very  sorry  that  I  do  not  know  George  better, 
but  I  hope  to  some  day;  and  I  do  know,  from  the  little 
I  saw  him,  how  much  he  loves  you. 

"I  have  little  news,  and  can  think  of  nothing  but  your 
happiness,  so  T  can't  write  any  more  now.   .   .   . 

"Do  write  when  you  have  time.  I  enclose  a  few  lines 
to  George.   .   .   . 

"With  very  much  love  and  a  heart  bursting  with  good 
wishes  for  your  happiness,  and  a  big  hug  from  little  Pat. 

"Your  loving 

"Stella." 


We  were  happy  at  last — I  with  my  belief  in  the 


t  Lady    Horner. 
♦The  late  Countess  of  Dudley. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     375 

love  I  had  struggled  against  for  so  long — convinced 
that  George  had  been  a  very  unhappy  man — that 
his  unhappiness  had  been  the  fault  of  others — and 
that  I  could  help  him. 

Five  days  after  our  marriage  Pygmalion  was 
produced  at  His  Majesty's  Theatre.  And  surely  no 
first  night  has  ever  gone  with  more  success,  and  with 
such  joyousness.  The  "bloody"  almost  ruined  the 
play;  people  laughed  too  much. 

Before  the  first  night  Joey  sent  me  final  orders, 
which  show,  I  had  not  been  obedient  at  rehearsals: — 

"...  I  could  have  planned  the  part  so  that  nine-tenths 
of  it  would  have  gone  mechanically,  even  if  your  genius 
had  deserted  you,  leaving  only  one-tenth  to  the  gods. 
Even  as  it  is,  I  have  forced  half  the  battle  on  you;  but 
winning  half  the  battle  will  not  avert  defeat.  You  believe 
in  courage;  I  say,  'God  save  me  from  having  to  fall  back 
on  that  desperate  resource,'  though  if  it  must  come  to 
that  it  must.  I  don't  like  fighting;  I  like  conquering. 
You  think  you  like  fighting  and  now  you  will  have  to  suc- 
ceed sword  in  hand.  You  have  left  yourself  poorly  pro- 
vided with  ideas  and  expedients,  and  you  must  make  up 
for  them  by  dash  and  brilliancy  and  resolution.  And 
so,  Avanti ! 

"G.  B.  S." 

One  paper  said,  "The  house  rocked  to  and  fro 
and  shook  with  laughter — they  roared,  they  cried 
with  laughter!"  There  was  a  kind,  human  element 
in  the  play,  too. 

In  September  I  went  to  America  with  Pygmal- 
ion,  leaving   George   in  my   house   at   Kensington 


376     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

Square.  The  wrench  was  hard,  but  he  had  to  re- 
main in  England  to  attend  to  his  financial  afifairs- 
As  usual  I  had  to  make  money. 

After  a  few  months,  George  came  out  to  me;  and 
learned  to  know  intimately  my  life  and  work. 

This  close  companionship  filled  me  with  happiness. 

But  the  rumbling  of  the  war  was  growing  louder — 
the  whole  world  was  on  its  mettle. 

Again  he  had  to  return  to  England  to  take  up  his 
military  duties. 

Some  months  later  George  came  out  to  me  a 
second  time,  and  I  felt  still  more  sure  of  our  future 
together. 

This  time  he  insisted  on  acting  with  me.  I 
taught  him  "Doolittle"  in  Pygmalion,  and  "Orreyd" 
in  Tanqueray,  and  he  acted  well. 

Everywhere  in  America  we  were  received  with 
great  hospitality. 

Dear  Mrs.  Stotesbury  lent  us  her  house  in  Wash- 
ington, and  her  servants  and  motor.  We  entertained 
royally  in  our  fine  surroundings,  and  when,  at  the 
end  of  the  week,  I  asked  her  housekeeper  for  my 
bills,  she  said,  "There  are  no  bills!" 

I  telegraphed  to  Mrs.  Stotesbury,  who  replied, 
begging  me  not  to  deprive  her  of  a'  trifling  happi- 
ness! 

In  San  Francisco  I  produced  Searchlights,  by 
H.  A.  Vachell,  and  taught  George  the  leading  part. 

After  some  weeks  he  was  called  back  to  England 
again. 


Courtesy  International  Xr~:.'sr,rl   i  nrp. 
MRS.    CORXWALLIS-WEST 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     377 

In  New  York  I  managed  to  get  up  a  matinee  for 
Shelagh's  *  hospital  in  France.  George  had  written 
from  England  asking  me  to  do  this  for  her.  I 
played  The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray,  and  sent  She- 
lagh  £500. 

My  mother-in-law  wrote  to  me  from  England : 

"Newlands, 
"Stella  dearest, 

"How  truly  I  wish  you  were  here !  Your  beloved  has 
just  arrived  in  his  uniform,  so  good  to  look  at.  So  glad 
of  your  dear  telegram.  Little  Shelagh  is  here  too,  and 
so  grateful  for  your  grand  work  for  her  hospital.  Ah, 
Stella  dear,  our  silver-lined  cloud  must  turn  its  silver  side 
to  us  soon. 

"As  for  our  beloved — you  have  made  a  different  man 
of  him,  and  his  men  I  hear  simply  worship  him.  What 
a  wonderful  success  Shelagh's  Benefit  must  have  been. 
Do  send  me  a  good  account  of  it,  and  your  speech.  I 
am  going  back  with  Shelagh  to  her  hospital,  and  then 
down  to  Daisy's  villa  in  the  South  of  France.  Have  you 
the  least  notion  what  your  plans  are?  Do  write  to  me 
now  and  then.  But  not  the  sort  of  writing  an  intoxi- 
cated snipe  would  make  who  had  dipped  his  feet  in  an 
inkpot  and  then  danced  a  mad  war  dance  all  over  the 
paper!  ! 

"Stella  dear,  you  know  you  cabled  me  to  spend  £30  on 
George's  hut.  But  it  has  not  come  yet.  I  only  tell  you 
because  it  may  be  lost  in  the  post. 

"God  bless  you,  dearest,  in  the  New  Year,  and  may  if 
bring  us  peace  together. 

"Loving 

"Patsy." 

*  George's  sister,  Constance  Duchess  of  Westminster. 


378     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

"Poor  little  Daisy  *  in  her  flat  In  Berlin,  but  she  has 
her  boy  with  her." 

George  met  me  at  Falmouth  on  my  return  from 
America. 

It  was  the  day  his  bankruptcy  was  published. 
We  remained  away  from  London  a  few  days — far 
too  happy  to  worry,  and  then  returned  to  Kensington 
Square. 

At  Rushlin  Castle,  George's  old  home  in  Wales, 
my  father-in-law  and  I  went  for  some  long  motor 
drives  together,  and  he  talked  to  me  of  his  youth  and 
the  Italian  nurse  who  had  nursed  him  as  a  baby; 
and  he  seemed  to  link  his  great  love  for  Italian  art 
in  some  way  with  her.  His  sensitive  appreciation 
of  the  beauty  of  nature,  shows  in  the  water-colour 
paintings  of  his  that  I  have  seen.  He  was  a  man  of 
absolute  integrity,  and  treated  me  with  afifection. 

My  mother-in-law  lived  with  me  at  33,  Kensing- 
ton Square,  during  a  time  of  severe  trial  for  her,  and 
for  us  all:  I,  with  other  friends,  did  my  best  to  help 
George's  mother. 

In  May  there  was  a  revival  of  Bella  Donna,  at  the 
St.  James's. 

In  October,  1916,  at  the  London  Opera  House,  I 
produced  The  Law  of  the  Sands,  by  Robert  Hich- 
ens. 

*  Princess  Pless,  George's  eldest  sister,  a  beautiful,  fragile  woman, 
who  was,  during  the  five  years  of  war  in  Germany,  nursing  and  bearing 
bravely  a  difficult  position.  She  and  her  son  stayed  with  me  in  England 
twice  after  the  war,  and  I  grew  fond  of  them. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     379 

I  encouraged  George  to  write  plays,  and  for  some 
time  it  was  an  absorbing  pleasure  to  him. 

In  February,  1917,  I  produced  his  one-act  play 
Pro  Patria,  at  the  Coliseum,  which  met  with  some 
success.  Later  I  took  it  to  the  provinces,  and  in 
one  town  his  father  and  mother  stayed  with  us  to 
see  the  play. 

The  following  letter  pleased  us: — 

"H.  M.  S.  Vernon, 

"Portsmouth, 
"Tuesday  night,  late, 

"Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell, 

"I  feel  I  must  write  and  tell  you  of  the  great  pleasure 
your  acting  in  Pro  Patria  gave  me. 

"Once  in  the  wilds  of  Ireland's  western  side  I  have 
often  heard  my  mother  speak  of  you  and  your  splendid 
acting.  I  never  had  the  chance  of  seeing  you  till  to- 
night. Now  I  can  write  home  and  tell  my  mother  how 
I  have  had  the  good  luck  of  seeing  you  and  hearing  you — 
which  was  best  of  all. 

"I  shall  always  cherish  memories  of  your  wonderful 
elocution  and  the  power  that  your  voice  possesses.  I 
just  loved  the  softness  in  your  voice,  and  its  changes, 
and  its  power  to  thrill. 

"Do  excuse  me  writing  to  you.  I  shall  carry  away 
with  m.e  memories  and  thoughts  of  a  beautiful,  good 
woman  gifted  with  a  most  wonderful  voice.  I  shall 
always  venerate  you. 

"I  suppose  I  have  no  right  in  writing  to  you — but  I 
feel  sure  you  won't  be  angry. 


380     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

"The  pleasure  and  brief  happiness  you  have  given  me 
make  me, 

"Always  gratefully  yours, 
"George  Cole. 

"P.  S. — It's  awful  cheek  for  a  sailor  to  write  to  you, 
but  I  simply  can't  help  it." 

During  the  next  few  months  the  agony  and  ner- 
vous strain  that  was  upon  the  world  had  broken  up 
all  normal  living;  and  normal  thinking.  The  ser- 
vant question,  and  food,  had  become  a  tragedy:  air 
raids — the  evening's  entertainment. 

In  the  home,  superhuman  courage,  and  calmness, 
were  needed  to  cope  with  nerves,  that  were  on  edge. 

If  there  was  no  cook,  and  you  could  cook,  that 
was  a  triumph:  I  felt  more  proud  of  my  sudden  abil- 
ity to  cook — and  that  George  proclaimed  my  cook- 
ing as  good  as  the  "Ritz" — than  I  have  ever  been  of 
my  success  on  the  stage. 

Terrible  war  news — with  the  awful  awaiting  and 
facing  the  death  roll — seemed  more  in  keeping  with 
the  tenseness  of  the  moment,  than  good  news. 

Companionship  in  the  home  was  not  expected: 
that  your  man  was  alive — your  son  safe,  and  sound; 
happy  on  his  "ten  days'  leave":  that  was  enough. 

The  long  grey  line  of  motor  ambulances  waiting 
for  the  wounded,  at  Charing  Cross — what  a  sight 
it  was  to  pass,  almost  every  night  coming  home 
from  the  theatre.  .  .  . 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     381 

At  the  Savoy  one  day,  a  tall  handsome  officer  came 
down  the  steps  of  the  restaurant,  carrying  his  friend 
on  his  shoulder — an  armless,  legless,  trunk,  with  a 
gay,  handsome,  laughing  face.  .  .  . 

In  October,  1917,  The  Thirteenth  Chair,  was 
produced  at  the  Duke  of  York's — a  popular  play  that 
met  with  great  success,  for  four  months. 

During  the  run  of  this  play  my  heart  was  lac- 
erated : — 

"Admiralty. 
"Deeply  regret  Acting  Lieutenant-Commander   Alan 
U.  Campbell  killed  in  action,  30th  December.     Letter 
follows." 

Beo  had  been  killed  in  France !  I  had  not  realized 
this  could  be.  .  .  . 

One  day's  rest  to  get  my  heart  steady,  and  then 
work  again!     Life  was  pitiless — the  theater,  hell. 

Friends  wrote:  "Thank  God  you  have  George  to 
love  and  take  care  of  you" — but  George  was 
strangely  silent;  this  made  the  pain  harder  to 
bear.  .  .  . 

I  was  in  deep  sea,  and  there  was  no  light  any- 
where. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

LlEUT.-COMMANDER    AlAN    U.    CaMPBELL,    M.C. 

Age,  32.     Howe  Battalion. 
Naval  and  Military  Service. 

H.  M.  S.  Britannia  (Training  Ship),  1898  to  1900 — 
Naval  Cadet. 

H.  M.  S.  Endymion,  1900  to  1904. 

H.  M.  S.  Glory  (Flagship  China  Station),  Cadet  to 
Midshipman.  Two  years  Training  Ship,  three  years  on 
China  Station. 

Retired  from  H.  M.  Navy  and  proceeded  to  Oxford 
University,  1905. 

At  outbreak  of  the  Great  War  obtained  commission  in 
R.  N.  V.  R.  as  Sub-Lieut,  in  December,  19 14;  would 
have  obtained  one  earlier,  but  was  compelled  to  undergo 
an  operation  to  enable  him  to  pass  Medical  Board  at 
Admiralty,  which  kept  him  two  months  in  hospital. 

Served  as  Sub-Lieutenant  in  the  Anson  Battalion  at 
Blandford  from  January,  19 15,  until  he  proceeded  with 
R.  N.  Division  on  original  Expeditionary  Force  to  Dar- 
danelles; was  prevented  from  taking  part  in  the  original 
landing  at  Cape  Helles  by  reason  of  wound  (caused  by 
operation)  reopening;  underwent  further  operation  in 
hospital  at  Port  Said,  and  when  discharged  to  Base  was 
unfit  for  service  in  the  field. 

Egypt. — Became  Base  Quartermaster  at  Mustapha 
Barracks,  Alexandria,  to  R.  N.  Division  for  one  month. 

Base  Quartermaster  to  M.  E.  F.  at  Base  for  two 
weeks. 

Appointed  A.  P.  M.  to  M.  E.  F.  at  Base,  Alexandria, 

382 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     383 

and  carried  out  these  duties  for  nearly  three  months, 
May  till  beginning  of  August,  when  he  was  pro- 
nounced fit  for  active  service;  proceeded  to  Gallipoli 
Peninsula. 

Gallipoli, — Landed  beginning  of  August,  joined  up 
with  his  old  battalion,  Anson,  found  himself  in  command 
practically  two  companies  (including  reinforcements)  at 
the  Cape  Helles  end  in  the  trench,  whilst  the  remainder 
of  the  battalion  was  at  Suvla. 

Transferred  to  Howe  Battalion,  became  Trench-Mor- 
tar Officer,  September,  19 15. 

In  October,  19 15,  took  part  in  operations  carried  out 
by  the  52nd  Division  (Lowland)  in  taking  Vineyard 
Trenches;  employed  protecting  their  left  flank,  with  all 
available  mortars  of  the  division,  relieving  the  French 
Division  on  the  extreme  right  of  the  line.  Was  put  in 
command  of  the  Divisional  Heavy  Mortar  Battery,  18 
guns,  afterwards  reduced  to  12  (Dumezils),  firing  1301b. 
shells,  which  the  French  handed  over  in  December,  19 15. 

He  was  ordered  by  the  8th  Corps  to  draw  all  enemy 
fire  possible  from  the  52nd  Division  (on  the  left),  who 
were  taking  some  trenches  near  the  "Vineyard,"  which 
he  very  effectually  did,  firing  on  an  average  30  heavy 
shells  from  each  mortar  and  having  the  "Dumezil"  gun 
positions  and  trenches  nearly  flattened  out. 

Prior  to  the  "evacuation,"  acting  under  orders  of  the 
Divisional  General,  he  invented  a  means  of  converting 
the  remainder  of  the  large  "Dumezil"  torpedoes,  into 
electrical  contact  land  mines,  by  means  of  tins  of  am- 
monal, lashed  to  the  sides  of  the  aerial  torpedoes,  and 
trip  wires  to  contact  pieces  into  electric  batteries. 

Using  the  personnel  of  the  Mortar  Battery,  and  with 
the  help  of  N.  C.  O.'s  from  the  Divisional  Signal  Com- 
pany   (R.  E.'s),  he  laid  out   13   mine  fields  in  the  di- 


384     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

visional  area,  protecting  the  withdrawal  of  troops  from 
the  line. 

The  mine  fields  started  from  between  the  firing  line 
and  support  line  and  covering  the  whole  front,  continued 
down  to  the  Eski  line  (or  final  reserve  line).  On  the 
night  of  the  evacuation  he  was  placed  in  command  of  the 
last  thirty-two  men  who  remained  up  with  Divisional 
Engineers  (who  were  cutting  wires  or  pulling  down  ob- 
structions in  the  trenches),  and  when  all  troops  had 
passed  through,  his  party  connected  up  all  the  trip  wires, 
completely  blocking  the  way,  should  the  Turks  attack. 

Some  of  the  mine  fields  had  as  many  as  250  large 
aerial  torpedoes  lashed  together  (about  25,000  lb.  of 
"Melanite"),  and  from  reports  of  aeroplanes,  and  news 
from  the  Athens  papers  during  the  next  few  days,  they 
appear  to  have  caused  great  havoc  amongst  the  Turkish 
patrols  (2,000  casualties  being  admitted  by  the  Turks). 

Evacuation. — Proceeded  with  the  division  to  Lem- 
nos,  given  leave  to  England.  Received  the  "Croix  de 
Guerre"  with  palm  from  the  French. 

Returned  and  proceeded  to  Stavros,  on  the  extreme 
right  of  the  Saloniki  line.  Back  with  Anson  Battalion, 
employed  digging  trenches  and  sighting  machine  gun  em- 
placements, etc. 

Returned  to  Lemnos  Island  with  the  R.  N.  Division, 
and  became  A.  P.  M.  to  R.  N.  Division  for  nearly  two 
months  until  arrival  in  France. 

He  was  practically  in  trenches  all  the  time.  He  put 
up  a  "box  barrage"  with  the  Stokes  Battery  in  two  suc- 
cessful raids  in  enemy  trenches.  Took  part  in  the  opera- 
tion north  of  Ancre  on  November  13th,   14th,   15th. 

Ordered  by  Brigadier  down  from  bombing  post  in  Ger- 
man Strang  point  to  conduct  two  tanks  up;  assaulted 
strong  point  with  tanks   at   6:10   a.   m.   on  November 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     385 

14th,  and  in  one  hour  took  position,  and  witli  officers  and 
crews  of  tanks  rounded  up  nearly  400  prisoners,  including 
seven  officers,  after  which,  until  relieved  on  November 
15th  at  4  P.M.,  acted  as  General  Brigade  liaison  officer, 
keeping  touch  for  Brigadier  with  all  units  of  brigade. 

February,  March,  19 17,  took  part  in  advance  on 
Aisne.  April  28th  took  active  part  in  the  operations 
around  Gavrelle. 

His  division  held  the  Oppy-Gavrelle  sector  until  re- 
lieved on  September  24th,  19 17. 

July,  August,  September,  he  came  home  to  Senior 
Officer  School,  Aldershot,  passed  out  with  a  most  ex- 
cellent confidential  report.  Was  secretary  of  school 
cricket  team. 

Promoted  to  Acting  Lieutenant-Commander  and  trans- 
ferred to  Howe  Battalion  as  Second-in-Command. 
Went  through  operations  in  the  Ypres  Salient,  October 
26th,  throughout  the  Paschendaele  offensive  to  October 
30th,  until  relieved,  November  8th;  moved  to  Cambrai 
front  December  i6th,  when  Boche  attacked  the  position 
on  Welsh  Ridge  in  the  La  Vacquerie-Marcoing  sector. 

He  and  the  Commander  killed  instantaneously  by  a 
bursting  shell  at  7  :30  A,  M.  December  30th.  Buried  on 
January  ist,  1918;  at  Metz  en  Couture. 

Mentioned  in  despatches  after  evacuation  by  General 
Munro. 

Recommended  for  a  promotion  by  General  McGrigor 
after  duties  as  Base  A.  P.  M.,  Alexandria,  August,  19 15. 

Recommended  for  promotion  by  Major-General 
Paris,  K.  C.  B.,  after  evacuation,  January,  19 15. 

Recommended  for  promotion  after  Stavros. 

Recommended  for  a  Battalion  Commander  by  Briga- 
dier-General Prentice,  D.  S.  O.,  after  operations  of  No- 
vember 13th,  north  of  Ancre. 


386     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

Received  Military  Cross,  January  ist,  1917. 

Received  Bar  to  Military  Cross,  January  20th,  1917. 

Egypt,  Dardanelles,  Salonika,  15  months. 

France,  17  months. 

Gazetted  as  Captain  in  the  H.  L.  L 

My  Son 

His  hand  is  on  my  arm,  and  he  says — 

"Don't  write  about  me  Mother — all  the  men  out 
there  were  such  splendid  chaps." 

He  sees  my  sad  face,  and  adds — 

"All  right,  say  what  you  like,  I  am  going  out  to 
play  golf." 

Yes,  he  is  happy  somewhere — and  I  may  do  as 
I  like. 

I  wanted  to  be  with  him  at  the  Investiture  at 
Buckingham  Palace  when  he  received  his  Military 
Cross  *  with  a  bar,  but  he  had  left  the  house  early 
that  morning,  and  when  he  came  back  he  handed 
me  the  case,  his  arm  around  me,  he  said  with  a 
smile: 

"Where  were  you? — a  poor  old  woman  came  up 
to  me  and  said,  'Bravo,  my  son' — everyone  thought 
she  was  my  mother." 

We   laughed — we   understood   one   another — pic- 

*This  cutting  from  a  daily  paper  of  14th  February,  1917,  describes 
the  deed  that  gained  this  honour: 

"He  brought  his  guns  into  action  with  good  effect.  Later,  he  guided 
two  'Tanks'  to  the  enemy  first  line  system  and  materially  assisted  in 
taking  over  400   prisoners. 

"The  hero  of  this  splendid  act  of  gallantry  is  Temporary  Lt.  Alan 
Urquhart  Campbell,  M.C.,  R.N.V.R.,  and  in  recognition  of  his  bravery 
the  King  has  awarded  him  a  bar  to  his  Military  Cross." 


o 
o 
W 
o 

to 

o 

o 
o 

W 

H 

O 

P^ 

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CO 

< 

a 

»— * 

KM 

o 
s 


O 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     387 

tures  in  the  papers  with  "Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell 
and  her  brave  son"  were  not  to  be  thought  of. 

Once  he  slept  in  the  room  next  to  mine;  he 
laughed  at  his  cough,  saying  he  had  been  "gassed  a 
bit." 

I  heard  him  talking  in  his  sleep — a  deep  strong 
voice — I  knew  he  was  giving  orders  to  his  men 

The  thought  kept  passing  through  my  mind  in  the 
night — "Beo  risks  his  life  hourly — he  gives  orders 
to  men  who  obey  him  with  their  lives." 

And  I  remembered  how  as  a  baby  he  wanted  a 
sword — and  his  first  picture  was  a  drawing  of  a 
flag- 

I  saw  him,  when  he  was  four  years  old,  nodding 
and  smiling  at  some  children  he  did  not  know,  who 
were  looking  at  him  from  a  window  as  we  passed. 

I  asked  him  who  they  were;  he  said  in  his  baby 
voice,  "They  are  my  friends" — that  was  his  attitude 
towards  the  world :  his  fellow  men  were  his  friends 
— and  they  were  all  worth  while — his  enemies 
were  the  enemies  of  mankind. 

I,  who  hate  war  with  a  hatred  that  makes  me  feel 
a  fiend,  learned  through  war  I  had  brought  a  man 
into  the  world — that  is  enough 

BED'S  LETTERS. 

"Somewhere  in  Gallipoli, 

"25th  October,  1915. 
"Darling  Mother, 

"I  expect  all  your  letters  and  all  mine  have  been  sunk! 


388     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

I  love  to  get  your  photos — do  send  me  as  many  as  you 
can,  and  of  anybody,  just  to  make  my  dug-out  look  cheer- 
ful and  to  remind  me  that  there  are  others  things  than 
dead  men,  shells  and  smells.  I  have  been  in  the  actual 
firing  line  now  nearly  three  months,  and  am  feeling  a  bit 
fed  up  with  it  all.  Flies,  sandstorms,  shells  and  smells 
describes  it!  There  seems  no  chance  of  leave  until  this 
'filthy'  war  is  over,  and  as  the  Bulgarians  and  Germans 
appear  to  be  making  their  way  down  here,  we  shall 
wake  up  one  morning  to  the  tune  of  'Jack  Johnson,'  and 
there  will  be  the  devil  of  a  scrap.  As  it  is,  the  shelling 
is  pretty  hot,  and  I  can't  remember  the  time  when  I 
didn't  have  a  headache. 

"Two  or  three  days  ago  we  advanced  to  within  twelve 
yards  of  the  Turks'  line  in  our  sector  without  a  casualty; 
and  as  I  am  now  commanding  the  Brigade  Mortar  Bat- 
tery, they  seem  to  think  that  my  beastly  heathenish 
bombs  and  mortar  shells  and  things  helped  somewhat. 
The  next  night  the  Turks  made  an  assault  with  bombs 
and  grenades,  etc.,  but  again  our  fellows  bombed  them 
back  and  my  old  Battery  put  the  fear  of  God  into  them. 
The  mortars  are  fine,  and  we  fire  a  shell  about  the  size 
of  St.  Paul's,  which  makes  a  noise  like  an  earthquake.  I 
direct  their  fire  from  the  nearest  point  to  the  enemy. 
Our  Tommies  love  them,  and  the  cry  is  ever — 'Give  'em 
some  more  "Delight,"  Sir!'  The  R.  N.  D.  out  here  are 
splendid,  that  is  to  say  the  remains  of  our  original  lot 
(poor  fellows,  they've  been  in  the  thick  of  it  for  six 
months  without  a  rest),  and  its  always  one  Englishman 
equal  to  three  Turks  at  close  quarters.  Let  us  hope  the 
new  drafts  and  reinforcements  will  soon  be  as  good  as 
the  old,  and  then  'Allah  help  the  Turk!'  Of  course, 
we  get  a  good  few  casualties.  One  young  ofl'icer  under 
my  command  had  his  head  blown  off  by  a  shell  just  near 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     389 

me !     I've   felt  squeamish  ever  since.     He  was  such  a 

cheery  soul,  and  only  18!     And  the  Colonel  of  the 

was  killed  by  a  shell  within  50  yards  of  my  dug-out,  and 

also  a  Major  in  the was  blown  to  bits  by  a  Turk 

bomb  quite  close  to  me.  (Better  not  name  Regiment 
on  account  of  the  Censor.) 

"I  have  been  extraordinarily  lucky  so  far.  Have  been 
hit  all  over  my  body,  but  always  with  spent  bullets,  or 
stray  spent  shrapnel  bullets.  How  long  the  luck  will 
last  rests  with  the  gods,  but  we  all  feel  here  that  none 
of  us  will  get  off  the  Peninsula  with  a  whole  skin.   .   .   . 

"I  am  a  funny  sight  in  the  trenches.  My  beard's  not 
a  success,  and  I  think  I'll  shave,  or  my  own  men  will 
shoot  me  one  night  for  a  Turk.  Our  average  distance 
from  the  Turk  along  the  whole  line  is  not  more  than  75 
yards — i.  e.,  from  the  Aegean  Sea  across  the  Peninsula 
to  the  Straits — and  it  is  awfully  sad  to  look  over  our 
parapet  through  a  periscope,  and  see  all  the  thousands 
of  dead  bodies  heaped  up  between  the  lines,  both  Turks 
and  our  fellows,  killed  in  the  numerous  assaults  on  each 
side.  It  is  certain  death  to  try  and  bring  them  in,  even 
at  night,  and  the  stink  is  awful,  and  the  vultures  hop 
about,  and  we  are  not  allowed  to  shoot  them — they  are 
USEFUL.  And  then,  when  one  walks  up  from  the  rest 
camps  (rest  is  only  a  name,  as  they  are  shelled  all  the 
time),  one  passes  graveyard  after  graveyard,  and  one 
reads  the  names  of  all  one's  pals  and  feels  sick  at  heart, 
but  one  arrives  at  the  firing  line  with  a  firmer  determin- 
ation to  beat  the  enemy  to  his  knees. 

"Do  excuse  this  rotten  letter.  Mother  dear,  but  there 
are  so  many  things  happening  every  day,  and  all  day 
and  night,  that  it  would  take  an  encyclopaedia  to  record 
them. 

'About   7 :30  A.  M.   the  other  mornmg  there  was  a 


390     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

pretty  aerial  duel  between  a  German  Taube  and  a  French 
Voisin.  The  German  was  armed  with  a  machine  gun, 
but  the  Frenchman,  though  only  armed  with  his  pistol, 
manoeuvred  so  well  that  he  managed  to  drive  off  the 
Taube.  It  happened  right  above  our  lines,  and  you 
should  have  heard  the  cheering. 

"I  am  writing  this  letter  in  my  little  dug-out  in  the  fir- 
ing line,  about  50  yards  from  the  Turks.  I  am  fairly 
comfortable.  Have  pinned  blankets  all  around  the 
walls  to  make  it  warm,  and  waterproof  sheets  on  the 
ground  and  roof,  and  have  nothing  to  fear  except  shells, 
centipedes,  snakes,  and — LICE.  If  you  want  to  send 
me  anything,  send  me  Keating's!  Outside  my  dug-out 
is  a  sentry,  who  is  potting  away  at  snipers  opposite.  I 
have  been  keeping  my  eye  in,  earlier  this  evening,  but 
one  has  to  be  pretty  nippy.  This  morning  about  6.15  I 
was  taking  aim  through  an  iron  loophole  at  another  loop- 
hole in  front,  when,  just  as  I  fired,  a  bullet  from  another 
sniper  hit  my  plate  about  a  quarter  inch  above  the  loop- 
hole. I  just  had  time  to  see  my  quarry  throw  up  his 
hands  and  fall  back,  and  then  I  sat  down  quietly  to  re- 
cover my  nerves.  The  bullet  had  hit  the  plate  with  sucb 
a  force  as  to  knock  it  back  on  to  my  head.   .   .   . 

"I  wonder  if  you  received  all  my  letters  from  Alexan- 
dria. By  Jove,  I  was  glad  to  get  out  of  that  place,  and 
it  was  just  touch-and-go.  The  doctors  wanted  to  invalid 
me,  but  I  had  made  great  friends  in  my  capacity  of  A.  P. 
M.  with  the  Surgeon-General,  and  I  practically  implored 
him  to  get  me  passed;  and  I  was,  and  here  I  am;  and, 
except  for  an  occasional  breakdown,  fever,  sunstroke,  in- 
fluenza, etc.,  for  a  few  days,  never  felt  better.  I  am 
afraid  the  men  suffer  a  good  deal  from  dysentery  and 
jaundice.  But  their  spirits  are  wonderful,  and  one  is 
proud  to  be  an  Englishman,  and  amongst  them.   .  .  . 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     391 

"Darling,  what  wouldn't  I  give  for  a  long  talk  with 
you  like  we  used  to  have.  I  wish  I  was  with  you  and 
working  for  you,  and  helping  to  make  all  a  success.  I  get 
many  spare  moments  to  think  over  my  life,  and  I  feel  so 
heartbroken  at  all  the  worry  I  have  caused  you.   .   .   . 

"I'm  pretty  lucky  in  this  job — that  is  to  say,  the  Briga- 
dier, and  others,  seem  to  think  I  COUNT,  and  have  made 
my  presence  felt.  When  I  first  landed  I  was  given  com- 
mand of  a  company,  and  then  had  command  of  what  was 
left  of  the  'Anson  Batt.'  here,  the  rest  being  at  Suvla 
Bay.  And  now  I  have  this  command,  which  is  gradually 
becoming  a  more  and  more  important  factor  in  the  cam- 
paign.  .   .   . 

"It  is  very  romantic,  sometimes;  we  have  a  glorious 
sunrise,  and  we  hear  all  the  Turks  chanting  the  Koran 
and  praying,  and  then  our  Tommies  play  the  bagpipes 
and  sing  ragtime  and  pepper  them  with  bombs  and  max- 
ims to  annoy  them.  How  they  must  hate  us !  It's  like 
a  glimpse  of  'Omar  Khayyam'  suddenly  overshadowed 
by  a  village  fair. 

"Remember  me  to  all.  Was  the  new  play*  a  success? 
Do  send  lots  of  photos.  You  don't  know  how  they  cheer 
one  up  in  this  God-forsaken  Peninsula.  All  my  love, 
darling  Mother,  and  do  forgive  me  for  all  my  sins. 

"Your  loving  son, 

"Beo." 

From  "Somewhere  in  the  Mediterranean"  he 
writes  to  Stella: 

"Sunday,  March  7th. 
"Darling  Stella, 

"The  Lord  only  knows  when  I  shall  be  able  to  write 

*  Searchlights. 


392     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

to  you  again,  or  even  If  this  one  will  reach  you.  We  are 
on  the  most  interesting  and  history-making  expedition, 
and  nobody  knows  if  we  shall  ever  come  back,  as  the 
forces  are  of  unknown  strength.  But  the  fact  remains 
we  are  going  to  land  and  occupy  the  Dardanelles  forts — 
attacking  them  from  the  rear  (those  that  the  fleet  haven't 
bashed  to  pieces),  and  then  we  go  on  to  Constantinople 
and  endeavour  to  take  it.  We  have  two  battalions  on 
board  and  the  Brigadier-General  and  staff,  and  the  band 
plays  every  night  at  dinner,  and  as  the  weather  has  been 
delicious,  it  has  been  like  a  yachting  trip  so  far.  Not  a 
sign  of  a  submarine,  although,  of  course,  we  were  strongly 
convoyed  through  the  zone.  Now  we  are  alone  and  all 
the  transports  assemble  at  Malta,  where  we  arrive  to- 
morrow. Thence  we  proceed  to  an  island  called  Lem- 
nos,  which  is  to  be  our  base. 

"At  what  point  of  the  Galllpoll  Peninsula  we  land  I 
don't  know,  but  that  we  shall  have  to  fight  our  way  all 
the  time  is  certain,  as  we  have  to  drive  every  Turk  out. 
All  our  men  are  magnificently  equipped,  and  I  myself  look 
like  a  pirate  of  Penzance  when  I  am  fully  armed. 

'"It  was  very  exciting  from  the  moment  the  King  In- 
spected us.  All  was  done  so  secretly.  We  marched 
out  of  camp  at  dead  of  night,  and  all  the  different  battal- 
ions entrained  at  different  stations  all  round  the  country, 
and  we  all  embarked  at  Avonmouth.  We  marched 
nine  miles  fully  equipped,  with  our  transport  and  mules 
and  horses,  etc.,  and  didn't  get  off  till  about  2  a.  m. 

"The  other  battalion  with  us  on  board  is  the  Hood 
Battalion,  O.  C.  Asqulth,  Patrick  Shaw  Stewart,  and 
Lewis  Waller's  son  are  all  with  it  and  on  board. 

"Violet  Asqulth  came  to  see  the  ship  off  all  alone. 

"We  have  a  new  Colonel  in  George's  place,  a  fine  man. 
Colonel    Moorehouse,    C.M.G.,    D.S.O.     He    was    in 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     393 

command  in  West  Africa.     There  is  quite  a  chance  if 
we  finish  this  job  satisfactorily,  and  there  are  enough  of 
us  left  out  of  the  60,000  who  go  now,  that  we  shall  go 
and  finish   off   German  East  Africa.   .  .   . 
"How  is  darling  little  Pat?  .   .  . 
"Good-bye.     Love  to  all. 

"Your  loving  brother, 
"Beo." 

And  some  months  later  he  wrote  to  her  from 
France : — 

"Darling  Stella, 

"Thank  you  so  much  for  the  beautiful  photo  of  your- 
self and  Pat.  How  lovely  he  is  getting.  You  are  a 
lucky  dog! 

"How  is  the  play  going?  And  how  do  you  think  dar- 
ling Mother  is  looking? 

"We  have  been  going  through  a  perfect  maze  of 
operations,  and  the  removal  of  our  division  from  the 
Salonika  front  to  the  French  front  was  a  thing  of  stu- 
pendous interest  and  work  for  us  all. 

"I  don't  think  much  of  the  trenches  here — very  un- 
sanitary and  no  proper  cover  from  shell  fire.  We'll 
have  to  show  these  troops  what  some  of  our  men  can  do 
in  the  way  of  trench  digging,  etc. 

"We've  had  a  few  casualties,  but  nothing  to  speak  of. 
They  all  regard  us  as  veterans  out  here,  which  is  pleas- 
ing, and  we  have  been  placed  in  a  regular  corps.   .   .   . 

"Tell  Pat  that  every  time  I  fire  my  guns  at  the  Boches 
I  say,  'There's  one  from  Pat!'  and  it's  become  quite  a 
common  expression — my  sergeants  use  it  now! 

"My  love  to  all,  darling. 

"Your  loving  brother, 
"Beg." 


394     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

"Anson  Battalion, 
"Royal  Naval  Division, 
"Eastern  Mediterranean  Squadron. 
"Darling,  darling  Mother, 

"Your  sweet  letter  has  just  arrived.  You  don't  know 
how  it  cheers  one  up  to  get  letters  from  those  one  loves. 

"I  am  sending  you  my  'Cross'  *  registered.  I  do  hope 
it  doesn't  get  lost.  There  is  no  opportunity  of  wearing 
it  out  here  in  the  field,  and  I  wear  the  bit  of  ribbon  on 
my  left  breast. 

"I  am  anxious  to  read  the  despatches  on  the  evac- 
uation at  Cape  Helles.  I  do  hope  I  get  an  English 
honour,  for  your  sake,  Mother,  dear.  I  only  want  it 
for  you.  I  was  glad  to  see  my  'Croix'  had  a  laurel 
spray  on  it,  which  is  the  highest  grade  and  differs  from  the 
Legion  of  Honour  in  that  the  'Croix'  can  only  be  won 
in  action,  whilst  the  'Legion'  can  be  won  anywhere,  and 
even  by  civilians.   .   .   . 

"Wasn't  it  rot  only  getting  three  weeks'  leave  after 
all  that  time  under  fire?  We  are  now  on  the  right  of 
General  Sarrail's  line  from  Salonika.  They  must  think 
a  lot  of  the  R.N.D.,  because  we  have  a  most  important 
part  of  the  line,  practically  at  the  same  point  where  the 
Greeks  beat  the  Bulgarians  in  the  Balkan  War;  in  fact, 
we  are  using  some  of  the  old  Greek  trenches.  The  Bul- 
garians are  thirty  miles  off,  although  we  can  see  their  out- 
posts and  fire  in  the  mountains.  A  Greek  Army  Corps 
is  in  between  us,  like  a  man  holding  two  dogs  apart.  .  .  . 
But  we  are  prepared,  and  strengthen  our  position  night 
and  day.  The  scenery  is  magnificent,  and  such  a  change 
to  that  awful  Peninsula.  My  duties  are  all  on  the 
mountain  tops,  and  I  come  down  to  our  little  bivouac  to 
sleep. 

*  Beo   sent   me  his   Croix   de   Guerre  to   America. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     395 

"I  am  looking  for  good  concealed  gun  positions  for 

my  battery,  and  it  is  interesting  and  exciting  work.   .   .   . 

"We  have  had  one  man  killed  by  a  bear  and  two  torn 

to  bits  by  jackals,  but  otherwise  we  are  all  very  happy 

and  healthy,  and  the  air  is  wonderful.   .   .   . 

"All  my  love,  darling. 

"Your  loving  son, 
"Beo." 

"ist  Trench  Mortar  Battery, 

"R.  N.  Division. 
"July  1 2th,  19 1 6. 
"My  own  darling, 

"Am  still  in  the  land  of  the  living,  although  last  night 
they  were  'plastering'  us  with  all  kinds  of  shell  and 
shrapnel.  Have  just  got  back  to  my  dug-out,  5  :30  a.  m., 
having  been  on  the  'qui  vive'  for  forty-eight  hours,  and 
feel  pretty  tired  and  headachy.  They  have  been  putting 
over  asphyxiating  shells,  and  one  has  to  be  eternally 
alert  not  only  for  one's  own  safety,  but  for  all  one's  men. 
Thank  God  the  prevailing  wind  or  breeze  is  not  favour- 
able to  them  for  gas!  Fifteen  men  were  killed  about 
2  a.  m.,  this  morning  by  one  of  their  beastly  big  shells. 
All  asleep  in  a  large  dug-out.  There  is  nothing  now  ex- 
cept a  large  hole  as  big  as  our  back  garden  and  bits  of 
legs  and  arms.   .   .   . 

"What  a  morbid  letter,  but  I  expect  it  is  because  I 
am  dead  beat  and  must  get  some  sleep,  but  don't  seem  to 
be  able  to.  The  battery  are  behaving  splendidly,  and 
I  am  awfully  proud  of  them.  It's  fine  to  feel  one  has 
trained  them  all  and  that  each  individual  man  always 
rises  to  the  occasion,  and  the  worse  the  shelling,  the  more 
dogged  they  become. 

"By  Jove  I'm  glad  I'm  an  Englishman.     The  Hun  is 


396     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

a  beaten  man,  and  it  Is  quite  a  common  occurrence  for  the 
Tommies  and  an  officer,  to  go  over  the  parapet,  and 
frighten  the  life  out  of  the  trench  opposite,  and  come 
back  with  twenty  or  thirty  prisoners,  at  night-time. 

"And  we  never  see  a  Boche  aeroplane  now.  Our  men 
are  always  ten  or  twelve  up  at  a  time. 

"Darling,  will  you  have  the  photograph  films,  which 
I  think  are  in  that  box  of  mine,  developed  and  printed? 
All  the  stuff  is  what  is  called  'Base  Kit,'  or  stuff  we  can- 
not be  burdened  with  out  here,  and  I  sent  it  on  to  you 
to  take  charge  of. 

"The  things  you  sent  me  are  fine,  and  I  don't  get  wet 
feet  now. 

"My  dug-out  is  in  a  trench  called  'Granby  Street.' 

"Fancy  B coming  to  see  you!     We  always  think 

him  a  little  'off  his  chump.'  He's  got  a  soft  job  now  as 
a  kind  of  messenger  to  the  Staff  Captain,  and  always  lives 
miles  behind  the  firing  line  and  gets  leave  occasionally. 
It  always  makes  us  in  the  firing  line  angry,  to  think  of 
all  the  staffs  who  get  such  an  easy  time  of  it,  and  who 
do  nothing  but  worry  us  with  returns  of  men  and  am- 
munition; and  as  soon  as  a  shell  comes,  run  deep  into  a 

dug-out  and  stay  there.      But  still,  old  B has  seen  a 

bit  of  fighting  and  has  stuck  it  out,  although  Jhe  always 
looks  as  if  he  were  going  'sick.' 

"I  must  go  to  bed  now;  it  Is  6:30  a.  m. 

"Good-bye  beloved   Mother. 

"I  wish  I  could  see  you  soon. 

"Your  own 
"Beo." 

"63rd  R.  M.  Division, 
"My  darling  Mother,  "18/8/1916. 

"How  rotten  you  must  think  me  for  not  having  ans- 


MRS.     PATRICK     CAMPBELL    AND     HER     TWO     CHILDREN 
JUST     BEFORE     BEO     ENTERED  THE  NAVY 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     397 

wered  all  your  sweet,  dear  letters.  You  don't  know  how 
I  love  to  get  them,  and  how  they  cheer  me  up.  We 
have  been  having  rather  a  hard  time  of  it — nearly  fifty 
days  and  nights  in  the  firing  line  now,  and  I  spend  all 
my  spare  moments  in  trying  to  get  a  little  sleep.  It  was 
terrible  the  other  day — I  lost  a  Corporal  and  four  of 
my  best  men  by  one  shell,  which  completely  buried  them  in 
the  crater  it  made. 

"It  nearly  broke  my  heart;  they  had  all  been  with 
me  nearly  a  year,  and  I  was  so  fond  of  them.  We  held 
a  solemn  service  in  the  crater  less  than  fifteen  yards 
form  the  Boche,  and,  although  they  were  shelling  at  the 
time,  our  poor  little  band  with  their  steel  helmets  off, 
remained  untouched. 

"The  awful  part  is  writing  condoling  letters  to  the 
wives. 

"No  signs  of  any  leave  yet.  What  do  you  think? 
While  walking  along  the  trenches,  I  met  'Polly,'  * — a 
full-blown  captain  of  a  Scotch  regiment,  and  in  kilts.  All 
his  men  love  him,  and  he  looks  quite  different  and  has 
been  through  a  lot,  and  he  is  a  real  good  plucked  'un  and 
very  fearless. 

"Do  write  often,  Mother  darling,  and  tell  me  any 
scraps  of  news.  I  don't  think  they  stop  illustrated  pa- 
pers; at  least,  most  of  the  men  get  them. 

"I  am  writing  George  a  note  to-night,  and  will  try 
and  write  you  a  longer  letter,  darling.  I  must  admit  I  am 
getting  a  little  war-worn,  and  would  like  to  get  a  cap- 
taincy or  majority  in  the  Scots  Guards  or  Black  Watch 
temporarily — it  would  give  me  a  little  respite. 

"All  my  love,  darling, 

"Your  own, 

"Beo." 

♦Captain    Allan    Pollock,    a    brilliant   comedian,    who    played    in    my 


398     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

*'i88th  Light  Trench  Mortar  Battery, 
"63rd  R.  N.  Division 

"France. 
"September,   19 16. 
"My  own  darling, 

"I  am  so  sorry  I  haven't  written  for  so  long,  but  life 
has  been  very  full  of  dangers  and  excitements,  and  the 
only  time  I  have  had  for  writing  has  to  be  occupied  In 
sending  in  reports  and  despatches. 

"You  will  be  glad  to  h.ear  all  the  Generals  think  very 
highly  of  my  Battery  and  I  had  an  awfully  nice  congratu- 
latory message  from  the  General  over  one  operation,  in 
which  he  said  that  my  comrades  were  grateful  to  me 
and  the  Battery  for  their  magnificent  work  and  devotion 
to  duty;  and  that  it  was  entirely  due  to  the  Battery  that 
the  operation  was  successful.  And  what  do  you  think? 
The  General  sent  for  me  and  told  me  that  because  I  had 
had  such  a  long,  tiring,  and  strenuous  time,  and  done  such 
good  work,  he  was  going  to  give  me  ^special  leave'  soon, 
that  I  was  too  valuable  to  him  at  the  present  moment, 
but  that  I  could  expect  it  in  the  near  future. 

"Hurrah!  !  Hurrah!  !  Til  be  able  to  'pop'  at  the 
rabbits  yet,  and  sec  'Beppo'  and  'Geeee-n-a'    !    !  *  .  ,  . 

"By  Jove,  we  did  get  a  pounding  from  the  big  German 
guns  the  other  day,  and  hardly  any  one  of  my  gun  posi- 
tions are  standing  now,  and  most  of  the  guns  are  out  of 
action — but  the  men  were  absolutely,  superbly  magnif- 
icent. Two  of  them  have  gone  in  for  D.C.M.'s,  and 
one  ought  to  get  the  V.C.  Mother,  you  wouldn't  be- 
lieve how  absolutely  fearless  and  wonderful  these  men 
of  mine  are.  They  are  just  like  young  gods,  all  of  them 
— most  of  them  youngsters — but  their  eyes  sparkle  and 

company  in  London  and  made  a  big  success  in  America;  a  brave  soldier 
who  was   severely   wounded. 

•  Our   dogs. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     399 

their  nostrils  dilate  with  excitement  when  they  go  into 
action,  and  I  can  rely  on  them  to  a  man  to  do  exactly 
what  I  want.  Sometimes  they  go  forty-eight  hours  with- 
out an  hour's  sleep,  working  day  and  night. 

"...  Darling,  the  coat  is  wonderful,  and  everybody 
is  envying  me.  I  sleep  in  it.  It's  so  awfully  cold  at 
nights  now.  And  the  pie  and  all  the  hairwash  arrived 
safely ! 

"What's  the  price  of  eggs?  ?  ?  You  couldn't  send 
two  dozen  hard  boiled  could  you?  They  are  so  fright- 
fully expensive  here,  and  all  our  money  goes  on  them. 

"Tell  me  about  Barnes — he,  anyhow,  is  an  honest  man! 

"I  do  love  your  letters  so,  Mother,  so  write  often,  even 
if  only  a  line,  and  send  more  photos.   .   .   . 

"Poor  Fred.  I  am  writing  to  him.  Fve  had  some  of 
that  'Sand  and  Flies'  in  Gallipoli ! 

"I  am  sending  you  a  cutting  *  I  found  in  the  Daily 
MaU  of  the  12th — rather  nice  of  Lady  Buxton,  and 
brought  back  memories  of  Daddy,  and  how  he  would  have 
loved  to  have  been  with  me  here. 

"Tell  me  the  name  of  your  playlet,  and  also  Stella's, 
and  has  anything  happened  about  George's? 

"Is  George's  Division  the  57th  or  67th,  and  what 
regiments  are  in  it?  I  hope  I  get  leave  before  he  goes. 
It  will  probably  only  be  ten  days  when  I  do  get  it. 

"My  best  love,  darling, 

"Your  own  son, 
"Beo." 

*  "During  their  stay  in  Boshof  their  Excellencies  decorated  with  al- 
mond blossoms  and  violets  the  grave  of  Captain  Cecil  Boyle,  a  brother- 
in-law  of  Lord  Buxton,  who  was  killed  in  action  in  the  neighbourhood 
in  the  Boer  War,  and  Lady  Buxton,  noticing  that  the  next  grave  was 
that  of  Sergeant  Patrick  Campbell,  husband  of  the  actress,  laid  on  it 
some  other  blooms.  Almond  blossoms  were  placed  by  the  Governor- 
General  upon  the  tomb  of  the  French  soldier,  Comte  de  Villebois  Mare- 
uil,  who  fought  with  distinction  on  the  side  of  the  Boers." 


400     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 
Writing  of  the  Battle  of  the  Ancre  he  says: 

"November  28th,  19 16. 
"My  own  darling  Mother, 

".  .  .  Imagine  a  huge  army  lying  on  the  grass  in 
massive  waves,  with  nothing  but  their  greatcoats  to  cover 
them;  no  noise — just  a  few  whispers — a  few  prayers,  and 
last  words  to  pals  before  the  attack  at  dawn. 

"I  felt  that  we  were  In  the  presence  of  two  gigantic 
figures,  who  were  sitting  minutely  gazing  at  us — one  was 
Death,  and  the  other  some  Indescribable  being — it  wasn't 
exactly  life,  or  Victory  or  an  Angel,  but  all  I  knew  was 
that  these  two  figures  were  silently  summing  us  up  and 
taking  the  toll  for  the  morrow.  I  have  never  felt  near  to 
God  in  my  life  before. 

"And  the  men — one  cannot  describe  their  magnificence. 
They  were  not  excited  or  downhearted — all  feeling  the 
same  presence  of  some  mighty  Being  who  was  labelling 
them  for  the  morrow,  and  all  filled  with  the  same  feel- 
ing, that  the  result  to-morrow  must  be  'Victory' 
at  all  costs ! 

"I  went  round  to  my  men  and  to  fellows  I  knew  in 
other  regiments,  and  one  felt  proud  to  be  amongst  them 
— and  not  for  all  the  riches  in  the  world  would  I  have 
given  up  my  place  in  that  mass  of  men.  One  literally 
felt  like  one  big  family.  Then  about  4  a.  m.  coats  were 
rolled  up  and  stacked  away,  and  a  small  tot  of  rum 
served  out,  or  hot  soup — to  keep  the  cold  from  one's 
bones,  and  then  a  silent  wait  at  the  Alert.'  Think  of  it, 
a  whole  army — all  waiting  for  the  signal. 

"Then  on  that  misty  morning,  just  before  dawn — one 
couldn't  see  ten  yards  in  front  of  one,  but  all  knew  ex- 
actly what  to  do — a  lumbering  15-in.  shell  came  on  and 
burled  itself  away  back  in   the   Hun   lines,   and  imme- 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     401 

diately  to  the  second  the  Artillery  started!  !  !  Ten  sec- 
onds before,  you  could  have  heard  a  pin  drop,  and  ten 
seconds  after,  you  had  to  shout  In  a  man's  ear  to  make 
him  hear.  Then,  as  the  barrage  lifts,  over  surge  the 
waves  of  men — I  and  my  men  with  them,  and  the  rest 
is  chaos — but  Victory !  ! 

"What  a  name  our  dear  old  Division  made  for  itself — 
each  man  was  ten  times  a  hero — and  they  were  up  against 
the  German  Guards  Division  that  day!  Those  they 
didn't  kill  they  captured,  until  they  had  accounted  for 
the  lot. 

"It  would  take  ten  volumes  to  recount  the  Incidents — 
one  gets  an  Impression  of  blood,  bayonets,  shells,  and 
blue-grey  uniforms! 

"My  men  were  glorious,  and  our  adventures  many. 
Seventy  of  us  were  holding  up  seven  hundred  Huns  for 
a  whole  day. 

"Then  all  our  guns  were  knocked  out,  and  every  man, 
killed  or  wounded  at  his  post. 

"Then  we  found  the  Boche  guns,  and  fired  them  until 
all  the  ammunition  was  expended.  Then  we  became 
bombers,  machine-gunners,  anything  that  was  needed, 
and  we  kept  fighting  for  three  solid  days — with  no  sleep 
until  we  were  relieved,  when  we  marched  out  covered 
with  blood,   dust,  and  smoke,   and  victory  In  our  eyes. 

"We  marched  past  guns  and  gunners,  (what  was  left  of 
us,  alas!). 

"You  should  have  heard  the  cheering.  The  dear  old 
Naval  Division  had  made  history  and  an  undying  name 
In  those  three  days.  But  what  a  cost!  It's  too  dread- 
ful— all  one's  pals  gone ! 

"How  I  got  through  I  cannot  say!  My  life  was  saved 
a  hundred  times  by  gallant  fellows — one  of  my  best 
pals  pulled  me  down  into  a   shell  hole,   saying:     'For 


402     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

God's  sake  look  out,  old  man  there's  a  sniper!'  And 
the  next  minute  he  had  been  shot  through  the  head  and 
fell  on  me,  dead! 

'And  the  glorious  stretcher-bearers  and  doctors — ' 
you  just  felt  that  V.C.'s  were  not  good  enough  for 
them — the  way  they  worked  under  murderous  fire !  I 
can  tell  you  the  clearing  of  a  battlefield  is  gruesome 
work. 

"My  greatest  feat  was  capturing  three  hundred  and 
eighty  odd  prisoners  with  eight  men  and  a  'tank'  !  * 
You  may  have  read  the  exploits  of  that  dear  old  'tank' 
in  the  papers.  I  saw  it  in  the  Daily  News  of  the  23rd 
November,  on  the  second  column. 

"Well,  yer  'umble  was  the  galleant  horficer  who  led 
the  way — 'because  he  knew  it  so  well' — I  should  jolly 
well  hope  I  did,  considering  I  had  been  bombing  it  with 
every  conceivable  kind  of  bomb  for  many  hours  and 
nearly  lost  my  life  a  dozen  times. 

"But  fancy  getting  a  notice  in  the  papers!  That's 
more  than  I  have  ever  done  as  an  actor ! 

"We  are  now  back  resting  and  refitting  and  getting  re- 
inforcements for  the  next  push. 

"I  have  been  very  lucky,  and  billeted  with  my  men  in 
a  lovely  chateau,  rather  like  Frampton* — there  is  fishing 
and  duck  shooting,  and  the  country  is  magnificent,  and  it 
is  wonderful  to  be  away  from  the  noise  of  the  guns. 

•The  Times,  on  the  24th  of  November,  1916,  had  said:  "One  would  like 
to  tell  at  length  the  tale  of  the  officer  of  the  Trench  Mortar  Battery,  the 
name  of  whose  father  (and  still  more  that  of  his  mother)  is  known 
wherever  the  English  language  is  spoken,  who  led  the  'Tank'  into 
action  against  the  redoubt.  It  was  not  strictly  his  business,  but  he  'knew 
the  road'  (having  been  putting  mortars  into  the  beastly  place  for  half  a 
day)    and  did   most  gallantly   a    service  of   great   danger." 

*Frampton  Court,  Dorchester,  the  home  of  Sir  Algernon  Brinsley 
Sheridan. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     403 

"I  expect  I  shall  be  able  to  get  leave  soon;  but,  of 
course,  I  must  first  reorganise  the  Battery. 

"Tell  George  the  Ansons  did  magnificently,  and  as  I 
am  still  on  their  establishment,  I  will  consider  myself  one. 
I  am  now  the  Senior  Ofllicer,  except  the  Colonel,  on  the 
books. 

"I  shall  try  and  manoeuvre  leave  for  Christmas  if 
possible. 

"I  hope  you  are  keeping  well,  and  don't  work  too  hard  ! 
"All  my  love,  darling, 

"Your  own  son, 
"Beo. 

"P.  S. — Love  to  George  and  Stella. 
"We  captured  a  little  dog  in  the  Boche  third  line — he 
is  so  glad  to  be  a  prisoner." 

"My  own  darling  Mother, 

"I  am  so  anxious  to  hear  about  George's  play.  Just 
a  line  from  the  front  trenches — it's  bitterly  cold  and  I 
don't  think  I  have  ever  felt  so  miserable,  frost-bitten, 
toes,  nose,  and  fingers — and  shelling  is  increasing  every 
day — but  we  are  continually  pressing  the  Hun  back,  and 
fighting  keeps  one  warm.  I  have  had  many  narrow  es- 
capes, but  I  always  carry  our  little  front-door  key,  *  and 
clutch  it,  if  I  feel  rather  faint, 

"A  shell  burst  so  close  the  other  day  that  I  was  inside 
the  zone  of  the  fragments,  which  luckily  burst  upwards, 
but  one  jagged  bit  cut  a  tree  in  half,  against  which  I  had 
crouched,  just  about  five  feet  above  my  head. 

"That  was  four  days  ago,  and  my  ears  are  still  singing 
and  my  nerves  are  going  slightly.  I  think  the  fellows 
who  get  wounded  are  the  luckiest,  you  can't  imagine  the 

•The  key  of  our  home,    33    Kensington   Square. 


404    MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

accumulated  strain  on  one's  nerves  after  two  years  of  it. 
"The  gramophone  In  our  little  dug-out  Is  a  source  of 
great  joy.  Did  you  get  the  cheque  for  It  we  all  sub- 
scribed? .  .  . 

"It  Is  now  1 1  a.  m,,  and  I  am  lying  down  on  some 
sandbags  resting  and  shivering  after  a  hellish  'scrap' 
last  night,  as  the  Boche  countered,  but  we  drove  them  all 
off  and  didn't  lose  an  Inch  of  ground. 

"Our  old  Division  never  has. 

"Lee,  my  Irish  sub.  Is  trying  to  fry  some  bacon  on  a 
candle,  and  is  making  us  all  laugh  by  his  language  and 
Irish  brogue.  Bragg,  another  of  my  subs,  who  Is  a 
Warwickshire  farmer,  is  making  our  mouths  water  by 
telling  us  the  tale  of  a  ham.  Wilcox,  my  second  In  com- 
mand, Is  trying  to  keep  himself  warm  by  writing  to  a  lady 
in  the  Argentine.  We're  more  or  less  a  happy  crowd; 
we  all  know  each  other's  worth  in  a  tight  corner,  and 
they  all  love  and  respect  me,  which  makes  me  happy,  so 
life  isn't  so  bad. 

"All  my  love  darling,  and  love  to  George;  my  hands 
are  so  cold  I  can't  write. 

"Your  own 

"Beo." 

"February  6th,  1917. 
"Well  darling, 

"After  the  most  awful  journey — bitterly  cold — which 
nearly  froze  us  to  death,  we  arrived  into  the  battle  area, 
and  found,  as  I  thought,  the  old  Division  in  the  thick  of 
it  again.  And  now  you  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  It  has 
kept  up  Its  reputation. 

"But  the  cold!  !  !  It  Is  Indescribable.  Some  of  the 
poor  wounded — both  Boche  and  ours — who  have  been 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     405 

lying  out  for  days  have  to  have  their  feet  taken  off  simply 
because  they  have  become  blocks  of  ice. 

"I  didn't  have  a  minute  to  write  to  George,  but  have 
done  so  to-day.  My  darling,  I  never  realise  how  won- 
derful you  are,  and  what  a  rock  of  comfort  you  are  to 
those  around  you. 

"The  whole  way  over  I  have  been  thinking  of  your 
goodness,  and  hoping  that  I  may  be  spared  to  really 
make  you  happy  in  regard  to  me,  and  my  doings,  with 
money  and  life  in  general.   .   .   . 

"Is  George  better?  I  met  some  of  his  staff  in  Bou- 
logne. His  Division  will  be  out  soon,  I  think.  I  am 
glad  he  is  not  coming.  He  would  die  of  the  cold.  Even 
the  water  in  our  water-bottles  has  two  inches  of  ice  on  it, 
and  our  meat,  and  even  bread  freezes. 

"The  Mess  are  overjoyed  with  the  gramophone.  It 
makes  life  absolutely  different  up  here  in  this  bleak  spot. 
It  took  us  a  long  time  to  get  it  going,  and  all  the  oil  had 
frozen;  but  now  it  is  playing  as  I  write  this,  and  the  guns 
are  booming  outside,  and  we  are  quite  merry  and  bright, 
awaiting  our  turn  again!  ! 

"My  Brigadier  is  very  sympathetic,  and  he  and  the 
Brigade  Major  have  elected  me  a  member  of  the  Cale- 
donian Club  in  London.  I  expect  my  commission  in  the 
H.L.I,  will  be  through  soon. 

"I  think  I  must  write  to  the  Paymaster,  Blandford, 
and  increase  that  monthly  remittance  to  you,  to  £15. 
It  will  teach  me  to  be  careful  with  money. 

"Did  you  post  the  letter  for  me?     It  was  on  your  desk. 

"Do  write  and  let  me  know  the  result  of  George's  play 
I  am  so  excited  about  it. 

"Your  loving, 
"Beo." 


4o6     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

" 1 88th  Trench  Mortar  Battery, 

II. 3.  1917. 
"Darling  Stella, 

"Why  don't  you  write  me  a  line?  Here  am  I,  having 
H — I's  own  time  in  a  sea  of  mud — and  shells — and  not 
a  line  from  my  own  sister!  !  !  Burghhh!  !  !  Boo- 
hoo!  !  ! 

"Right!  I  was  going  to  finish  a  one-act  play  for  you, 
but  now  I'll  give  it  to  Sally  Brough  instead,  and  eat  all 
Pat's  sweets,  and  dirty  Nann/s  nursery,  and — well — 
nuff  said !  !  ! 

"You  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  perhaps  I  am  coming 
back  this  month  to  go  to  Aldershot,  to  attend  a  Battalion 
Commanders'  Course,  and  that  I  get  from  Saturday  noon 

to  Monday  9  a.  m.  off  every  week. 

"Our  old  Division  has  been  doing  marvels,  and  we  are 
very  pleased  with  ourselves,  although  I  think  they  have 
given  us  a  full  share  of  fighting,  practically  scrapping 
continuously  since  I  came  back  and  that  on  the  top  of 
the  big  attack  in  November  we  have  just  about  beaten 
the  record  out  here.  So  far  in  our  Brigade  alone  since 
November  13th  we  have  won  ten  D.S.O.'s  twenty-six 
Military  Crosses,  and  about  forty  D.C.M.  and  Military 
Medals. 

"Do  you  see  much  of  mother?  I  do  hope  so.  I 
realise  so  much  now  what  a  treasure  she  is,  and  what  a 
lot  we  both  owe  her  in  life. 


"write. 


"Your  own  loving  brother, 

"Beo." 

"Best  love  to  Pat  and  Nanny,  and  ask  N.  to  send  along 
any  old  illustrateds  or  magazines  she  doesn't  want,  as 
the  men  love  them  sOi" 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     407 

"i88th  Trench  Mortar  Battery. 
"Darling,   ...  I  can  only  tell  you  that  before  the  end 
of  the  war  I  will  make  you  proud  of  me. 
"With  all  the  love  in  the  world. 

"Your  own  son, 

"Beo." 

"May  1917. 
"My  own  darling  Mother, 

"Just  a  line  to  tell  you  I  am  quite  all  right.  We  are 
back  amidst  the  shelling  and  noise  again;  but  the  weather 
is  warm,  and  that  is  the  main  blessing.   .   .   . 

"If  you  ever  send  any  records  out  again,  try  and  get 
one  of  Caruso  singing  an  English  song  (it  is  the  only  one 
he  has  sung,  and  it  is  divine). 

"Also  some  needles  and  some  good  songs  or  violin 
and  Chu  Chin  Chow  records. 

"I  am  so  sorry  George  is  ill.  Can't  he  get  a  War 
Office  job  on  "Q"  branch  somewhere,  where  he  would 
not  have  to  run  about  so? 

"When  I  get  home  you  must  meet  our  machine-gun 
officer,  Macgeorge,  if  we  can  get  home  together.  He 
plays  the  piano  divinely.  When  we  were  resting  in  a 
back  area  we  found  quite  a  good  piano  belonging  to 
our  'Follies,'  and  he  played  for  hours,  everything  from 
Liszt,  Schumann,  Strauss,  down  to  Paul  Rubens  and  coon 
songs.  You  only  have  to  give  him  a  whisky  and  soda 
and  a  good  cigar,  and  he  is  a  concert  in  himself — and 
only  twenty-two;  but  he  has  studied  for  ten  years  all 
over  Europe.  He  makes  a  very  fine  officer,  too.  He 
is  in  the  H.L.I, 

"Do  write  often.     Stella  hasn't  written.   .   .  . 

"Give  my  Ipv^  to  George. 

"Your  own  loving  son, 

"Beo." 


4o8     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

"May,  1917. 
"My  own  darling  Mother, 

"Just  a  few  lines  to  say  we  have  just  come  out  of  the 
stiffest  scrap  this  Division  has  ever  been  in.  I  cannot 
describe  it,  except  it  was  all  hand-to-hand,  and  that  we 
had  to  fend  off  at  least  sixteen  counter-attacks  of  Boches 
ten  times  our  number — one  night  seven  counter-attacks. 
But  the  Division  came  out  more  glorious  than  ever — ab- 
solutely magnificent — and  my  men  were  almost  super- 
natural— forty-eight  hours  without  leaving  the  guns — 
no  food  or  water — and  the  Germans  seething  round  like 
tiger-cats;  but  our  men  can  be  super-tigers,  and  we  never 
gave  one  inch  of  ground. 

"I  am  quite  well,  but  dazed  and  rather  weak — the 
shelling  was  indescribable.  I  believe  they  are  going  to 
shower  more  honours  on  us,  and  every  man  deserves  a 
V.C. ;  but  anyhow,  I  have  one  man  in  for  the  V.C.  and 
two  for  the  D.C.M.,  and  five  for  Military  Medals. 
I  do  hope  they  will  get  them. 

"Love  to  all. 

"Your  own  son, 

"Beo." 

"My  own  darling  Mother, 

"I  have  had  no  time  to  write.  We  have  been  scrap- 
ping and  fighting  all  the  time,  and  I  am  so  tired  and 
weary,  and  it  is  only  the  thought  of  how  unhappy  it 
would  make  you  and  others  that  prevents  me  praying  for 
a  shell. 

"I  am  broken-hearted;  one  shell  came  yesterday  and 
knocked  out  twenty  of  my  men  and  one  ofl^cer.  It  is  too 
awful  to  think  about.  It  would  have  killed  me,  too,  if  I 
hadn't  just  turned  back  five  minutes  before  to  go  and 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     409 

telephone  from  a  dug-out  to  the  General.  I  and  the  rest 
of  my  Battery  are  so  shaken  by  this  horrible  loss  that 
we  have  been  relieved  from  the  guns  for  a  day  or  two, 
but  shall  go  back  soon. 

"I  expect  you  will  read  all  about  the  dear  old  Divi- 
sion's exploits — we  have  excelled  our  last  performance. 

"How  did  G.'s  play  go?  I  am  so  anxious  to  know.  I 
have  looked  in  the  only  papers  I  can  find  and  can  only 
find  my  own  name !  !  ! 

"Write  soon,  please. 

"Your  own  loving  son, 

"Beo." 

"In  the  Field. 
"My  own  darling  Mother, 

"I  am  afraid  my  coming  home  has  been  knocked 
on  the  head  for  some  time,  as  the  worrying  of  the 
Boche  during  his  retirement  requires  the  services  of  all 
the  highly  trained  officers  and  men  in  France.  We  are 
still  more  or  less  in  the  thick  of  it  and  I  am  afraid  will 
be  for  some  time,  and  there  Is  no  leave  to  be  had  for 
a  long  time.  Things  are  progressing  well  here,  and 
there  is  no  doubt  the  Boche  is  a  beaten  man  on  the 
Western  front,  but  I  cannot  see  any  finish  to  the  war 
until   about  June,    19 18. 

"It  is  rather  hard  luck  on  all  of  us  who  have  been 
at  it  practically  from  the  start  to  be  continually  kept 
at  it  when  there  are  so  many  thousands  of  soldiers  at 
home  doing  nothing.  But  still,  we  are  all  patriots,  and 
if  the  services  of  our  highly  trained  and  brave  men  and 
officers  are  necessary  for  the  carrying  out  of  successful 
operations,  well,  we  give  our  blood  cheerfully  and  will  go 
on  doing  so  until  we  are  all  gone.     Do  you  know  our 


4IO     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

Division  has  now  in  its  possession  more  crosses  and 
medals  for  Bravery  and  Valour  than  any  other  in 
France? 

"And  it  makes  your  eyes  dim  to  see  the  brave  fellows 
on  the  march,  some  with  two,  some  with  three  gold 
stripes,  and  even  a  few  with  four  or  five ;  and  nearly  every 
two  or  three  with  the  Military  Medal  or  D.C.M.,  and 
the  officer's  with  their  D.S.O.'s  and  Military  Crosses 
and  a  V.C. — our  V.C.,  poor  devil,  is  dead. 

"Do  write  and  tell  me  all  news.  I  am  sorry  George 
is  not  well.  Can't  he  get  a  staff  job  in  a  Brigade  or 
Divisional  H.Q.'s,  such  as  Staff-Captain,  where  the  work 
would  not  be  so  strenuous?  I  know  from  experience 
that  an  A.P.M.'s  job,  done  keenly  and  well,  is  as  tiring 
as  anything,  and  in  France,  during  this  advancing  busi- 
ness, one  man  is  never  asleep  and  has  three  times  the 
amount  of  mounted  police,  and  all  of  them  at  it  day  and 
night,  guarding  prisoners,  traffic,  wells,  etc.,  besides  the 
usual  routine  of  a  Division.   .   .   . 

"The  Germans  have  just  started  to  bombard  us  rather 
heavily,  so  we  must  get  under  cover. 

"In  spite  of  all  discomforts,  we  are  quite  a  happy 
crowd,  as  our  Brigadier  and  staff  are  perfectly  charming 
and  considerate,  and  such  fine  soldiers,  and  so  proud  of 
all  of  us. 

"Do  go  on  sending  papers  and  kippers  or  haddocks. 
The  cigarettes  were  received  with  joy  by  the  men,  and 
came  at  the  most  opportune  moment,  when  I  don't  think 
there  was  one  in  the  whole  Battery. 

"Give  my  love  to  George  and  tell  him  I  will  write  him 
a  yarning  letter  soon. 

"All  my  love,   darling. 

"Your  own  son, 

"Beo." 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     411 

"My  own  darling  Mother, 

"Thank  you  again  and  again  for  the  Map  Case.  It 
was  a  lovely  one,  and  it  never  left  me  in  the  last  attack, 
in  which  I  continually  had  to  be  referring  to  my 
maps.   .   .   . 

"The  old  Division  is  praised  on  all  sides,  and  really 
it  is  a  marvel  what  we  do;  for  forty-eight  hours  we  held 
off  what  seemed  to  me  to  be  the  whole  German  army, 
but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  two  German  Army  Corps, 
of  ten  times  our  number,  and  we  never  gave  an  inch. 
There  was  no  souvenir  hunting,  and  the  prisoners  taken 
were  under  1,000,  but  all  the  time  it  was:  kill,  kill!  !  ! 
We  out  here  see  the  Boche  as  he  is — with  the  veneer  of 
civilisation  off,  and  there  is  only  one  thing  to  do — kill 
him!  as  quickly  as  possible. 

"So  you  see,  darling  Mother,  letters  from  home  are 
the  only  things  that  keep  us  fighting  troops  from  becom- 
ing ferocious  beasts  ourselves.  So  write  every  day  if 
you  can.   .   .  . 

"One  cannot  talk  of  'after  the  war.'  None  of  us 
really  expects  to  come  out  alive — least  of  all  a  Trench 
Mortar  man.  It's  simply  by  watching  the  Boche  man- 
oeuvres and  shelling,  that  I  have  managed  to  keep  any 
of  my  men  alive,  also  myself;  but  it  is  weary  work. 
The  gassing  I  got  last  November  is  beginning  to  tell  on 
me — the  slightest  bad  smell  makes  me  sick,  and  cigar- 
ettes and  cigars  are  no  enjoyment.  My  left  hand  was 
badly  lacerated  by  German  barbed  wire  in  the  last 
attack.  .  .  . 

"I  wonder  if  you  could  send  out  my  old  cricket  bag 
with  all  my  cricket  things  and  a  ball  or  two,  and  a  few 
old  golf  balls  and  iron  clubs,  for  when  we  do  come  out 
of  the  line  we  shall  probably  go  back  a  good  way  to  rest, 
and  the  men  would  love  to  play  cricket. 


412     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

"When  we  get  out  I  am  going  to  finish  and  send  you 
two  little  one-act  plays. 

"How  is  Stella?  .   .   . 

"Well,  darling  Mother,  I  have  talked  a  lot  about  my- 
self and  my  doings.  I  want  to  know  all  about  you  and 
yours.  Is  the  tour  a  success?  How  wonderfully 
plucky  George  acting  like  that — with  you,  too!  I  bet  he 
was  nervous.  Tell  him  to  keep  it  up  till  I  come  back. 
I'm  dying  to  see  him  and  will  write  him  a  play  called 
'Beppo  *  and  the  Brigand.'  Give  him  my  love;  I  wish 
he  were  here.  He  would  have  been  a  Brigadier  by 
now!   .   .   . 

"The  Anson  Battalion  won  the  two  football  cups  to- 
day and  yesterday!  Fancy,  every  match  of  the  season 
has  been  played  under  shell-fire  and  in  sight  of  the 
enemy ! 

"My  French  has  become  quite  good;  that  is  to  say,  I 
have  been  telling  stories  to  the  French  staff  officers  to 
wile  away  a  weary  hour  or  two  in  the  trenches.  .   .   . 

"All  my  love,  darling. 

"Your  loving  son, 

"Beo." 

In  the  summer  of  1917  he  wrote  from  the  Senior 
Officers'  School: — 

"Lille  Barracks, 

"Aldershot. 
"Darling  Mother, 

"I  feel  so  anxious  about  you  in  these  raids.  I  do 
hope  you  are  not  suffering  from  shock  or  anything.  Do 
be  careful. 

*  My  husband's  dog,  a  dear,  black  retriever. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     413 

"I  will  see  you  on  Saturday.  We  are  having  a  most 
strenuous  week. 

"All  my  love,  darling. 

"Your  own  son, 

"Beo." 

In  a  letter  to  George  he  says: 

".  .  .  The  more  I  see  of  them  (women),  the  more 
keenly  I  appreciate  what  a  wonderful  person  my  own 
Mother  is — so  far,  far  above  all  the  rest!" 

I  find  a  letter  from  a  girl  friend  of  his  in  Amer- 
ica, written  to  him  at  the  Front,  about  her  mar- 
riage : 

"Irvington-on-Hudson. 
"Dear  Alan, 

"My  memory  of  you  is  precious  and  beautiful.  No 
one  in  the  world  knows  the  fine,  brave  Beo  better  than 
I  do.  Your  letter  makes  me  know  that  all  the  things 
I  have  believed  about  you  are  absolutely  true.   .   .   . 

"I  am  happier  than  I  ever  thought  I  would  be.   .   .   . 

"We  were  married  when  we  had  known  each  other  six 
weeks !   .   .   . 

"You  are  a  good  man,  and  a  brave  one.  .   .  . 

"Esther." 

"My  darling  Mother, 

"Just  a  line  to  let  you  know  I  am  quite  fit.  We  had 
a  few  days'  rest  and  I  went  some  motor  rides  with  a  pal. 
It  was  funny.  I  ran  up  against  Phil  Carr,  a  Captain 
in  the  Intelligence  Corps  at  St.  Pol.  He  gave  me  dinner 
and  tea,  and  we  had  a  long  talk  about  things. 


414     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

"We  are  now  off  into  the  thick  of  it  again,  and  the 
rest  is  in  God's  hands.      I   know  you   are  praying   for 
me,  and  that,  and  the  excitement,  and  my  wonderful  men 
keep  me  going. 
"Write  often. 

"Your  loving  son, 

"Beo." 

"France. 
"Darling, 

"I  am  all  right — awful  noise,  and  we've  lost  a  few  men, 
but  have  the  Boche  under  our  thumb. 

"Will  write  when  I  get  a  moment,  to  all. 
"All  my  love. 

"Beo." 

"i88th.  Light  Trench  Mortar  Battery, 

"France. 
"My  darling  Mother, 

"No  news  from  you  for  ages.  I  haven't  written  for 
some  time  because  I  am  in  the  thick  of  the  fight,  and 
one's  nerves  are  so  keyed  up  that  one  cannot  relax  for 
a  moment,  knowing  that  one  mistake  means  not  only 
the  loss  of  one's  men,  but  one's  own  life  as  well. 

"My  men  are  working  splendidly,  and  I  am  very  proud 
of  them;  of  course,  I  have  had  casualties,  but  mostly 
wounded,  and  they  are  very  cheerful  when  I  manage 
to  get  down  to  an  advanced  dressing  station  or  hos- 
pital. 

"There  seems  no  chance  of  leave  for  ages. 

"You  will  be  glad  to  know  I  was  mentioned  in 
despatches — Sir  G H 's  belated  Gallipoli  des- 
patch,  vide  Daily   Telegraph,  July   14th,  page    12,   4th 


AS    AMERICA    REMEMBERS    HER 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     415 

col,,   under  Howe   Battalion,   next  to   Colonel   Collins. 

"I  was  attached  to  Howe  Battalion  during  latter  part 
of  operations. 

"So,  darling  Mother,  with  a  lot  of  luck  I  may  have 
an  English  honour  to  give  you  to  keep  with  the  Croix 
de  Guerre. 

"Do  write  and  let  me  know  how  you  are,  and  do  take 
care  of  yourself,  Mother  darling,  and  don't  do  too 
much, 

"My  Battery  was  lent  the  other  day  to  one  of  the 
finest  old  regular  Divisions,  and  to  my  surprise  I  was 
placed  in  command  of  five  Batteries,  and  went  to  all  the 
Conferences  of  the  Generals.  It  was  most  interest- 
ing, and  they  all  treated  me  well  and  took  my  views  and 
advice  on  several  matters,  which  was  quite  an  honour, 
wasn't  it? 

"I  am  feeling  rather  sore  about  the  head  and  stomach 
to-day,  as  I  had  a  very  narrow  escape  yesterday — one  of 
their  beastly  shells  fell  about  ten  yards  away.  I  heard 
it  coming  just  in  time  to  fling  myself  down  a  mine  shaft, 
but  I  was  very  sick  afterwards;  all  my  stomach  seemed  to 
be  turned  upside  down  and  my  head  aches.  I'd  give  a 
lot  to  be  able  to  have  forty-eight  hours'  sleep  in  dear  old 
thirty-three. 

"By  the  way,  do  send  me  some  weekly  illustrated  pa- 
pers, because,  of  course,  we  have  no  mess  now  and  get 
no  papers  except  the  Daily  Mail. 

"My  best  love,  darling,  and  do  write  soon. 

"Your  loving  son, 
"Beo. 

"Gladys  Cooper's  photo  hasn't  arrived  yet,  but  the 
others  brighten  up  things  greatly." 


4i6     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

"France, 
"November  30th,   19 17. 
"My  own  darling  Mother, 

".  .  .  George  tells  me  you  are  not  well  and  are  suf- 
fering a  great  deal.  Do  please  take  care  of  yourself — 
it  makes  me  more  nervous  than  all  the  shells  and  bombs 
in  the  world. 

"You  must  give  up  all  those  extra  matinees  and  parties 
for  charity;  you  will  kill  yourself.   .   .   . 

"I  wonder  if  any  of  us  will  have  any  nerves  by  peace 
time,  if  we  are  alive ! 

"It's  wonderful  about  the  cards* — the  padre  and  I 
think  that  we  will  give  one  to  each  man,  and  if  he  wants 
another,  or  any  more,  he  will  pay  twenty-five  centimes 
for  it  and  the  officers  fifty  centimes  each,  the  proceeds  to 
go  to  the  Battalion  Band  Fund! 

"We  are  progressing  favourably  with  our  Band,  and 
have  a  real  professional  Orchestra  leader  as  Bandmaster. 

"But  do  tell  me  what  the  cards  cost,  because  I  feel  it 
must  have  been  such  an  expense  for  you. 

"Gladys  Cooper  sent  me  such  a  lovely  new  photo  of 
herself,  which  now  adorns  my  tent  and  sometimes  the 
mess  when  we  can  get  one.  .  .  . 

"Your  loving  son, 
"Beo." 

"Howe  Battalion, 
"17th  December,  1917. 

"My  own  darling, 

"The  cards  are  wonderful  and  a  huge  success.  I  have 
given  everybody  one. 

*  He  made  a   sketch  for  a   Christmas  card.     I  was  able  to  get  i,ooo 
printed  for  him  in  time. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     417 

"We  have  fifteen  Instruments  now,  and  although  they 
have  only  been  going  four  weeks,  they  have  already 
given  a  concert. 

"I  am  so  afraid  we  shall  be  in  the  trenches  for  Christ- 
mas, and  I  expect  the  Boche  will  attack  again,  but  we  are 
ready  for  him.  He  has  never  driven  the  old  R.N.D. 
back  a  foot,  and  never  will  while  any  of  us  old  'uns  are 
alive.  The  esprit  de  corps  is  fine,  and  I  flatter  myself 
the  Battalion  is  in  as  good  fighting  trim  as  it  has  ever 
been;  but  it  has  been  hard  work  training  the  new  men  and 
lecturing  and  putting  new  morale  into  them — eight  solid 
hours  a  day,  and  the  weather  abominable.  .  .  . 

"Your  loving  son, 

"Beo." 

Beo  and  his  Commander,  were  killed  instantan- 
eously by  a  shell  near  La  Vacquerie,  at  about  half- 
past  seven  in  the  morning  of  December  30th,  and 
were  buried  on  January  ist,  at  Metz-en-Couture. 

"Headquarters,  13th  Corps, 
"B.  E.  F. 

6/1/1918. 
"Dear  Mrs.  Campbell, 

"I  was  indeed  grieved  to  read  of  the  death  of  your 
son,  and  my  old  comrade,  Alan  Campbell.  We  served 
together  in  the  same  Brigade,  of  which  I  was  Brigade 
Major  from  the  beginning  of  Gallipoli  till  our  arrival  in 
France,  and  in  the  same  Division  until  the  beginning  of 
last  year. 

"You  will  doubtless  know  with  what  gallantry  he 
fought  in  Gallipoli.  Certain  arrangements  for  our 
final   retirement   were    entirely    in    his    hands,    and    the 


4i8     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

Turk  knows  best  how  efficient  those  arrangements  were. 

"In  France  he  quickly  became  known  as  a  daring  and 
expert  Trench  Mortar  Officer.  I  have  no  hesitation  in 
saying  that  he  was  out  and  away  the  best  I  have  known, 
the  next  best  being  an  officer  he  had  trained,  and  who 
later  became  the  officer  in  my  new  Brigade. 

"How  he  led  a  Tank  into  action  at  the  Ancre  on 
November  14th,  19 16  is  probably  known  to  you.  It  was 
a  particularly  gallant  act,  and  cleared  up  a  very  awkward 
situation. 

"As  to  his  later  work,  you  will  doubtless  hear  from  his 
present  Commander,  but  I  feel  that  I  cannot  let  slip  this 
opportunity  of  expressing  my  admiration  for  the  gallan- 
try and  leadership  shown  by  my  old  comrade,  and  also 
of  expressing  my  sincerest  sympathy  with  you  in  your 
loss. 

"Yours  sincerely, 
"C.  F.  Jerram 
"(Major)." 

"nth  January,  1918. 
"Dear  Mrs.  Campbell, 

".  .  .  During  the  short  time  we  served  together  in  the 
Dardanelles  and  in  France  he  stood  out  as  one  of  the  very 
best  officers,  a  splendid  character  and  full  of  grit.  He 
did  fine  work  all  through,  more  especially  in  connection 
with  the  evacuation,  which  meant  for  him  a  week  of 
danger  without  rest. 

"He  soon  got  known  in  France,  where  opportunities 
were,  perhaps,  greater,  and  I  had  hoped  to  hear  of  his 
rapid  advancement.  His  death  is  a  grievous  blow  to  the 
Division  and  to  the  Service.     His  proud  record  and  ex- 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     419 

ample  remain — and  this  must  be  some  little   solace  in 
your  present  great  trouble. 

"Yours  sincerely, 

"A.  Paris 
(Late  G.O.C.  Naval  Division)." 

"6th  January,  19 18. 
"Dear  Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell, 

"...  I  knew  him  so  well,  and  realise  so  much  what 
a  loss  he  is  to  his  country,  and  his  regiment. 

"I  was  more  pleased  than  I  can  tell  you  when  I  read 
that  he  had  been  gazetted  as  Captain  in  the  H.L.L,  and 
I  had  been  counting  on  him  at  the  end  of  the  war  as  be- 
ing one  of  our  most  tried  and  trusted  officers — and  one 
who,  I  knew,  would  be  warmly  welcomed  by  all  of  us  who 
are  left. 

"As  his  late  Brigadier  I  cannot  speak  too  highly  of 
him.  The  most  gallant  fellow  I  have  ever  met — always 
reliable  and  very  capable. 

"He  would  very  soon  have  had  command  of  a  Bat- 
talion— and  was  doing  such  good  work  with  the  Howe 
Battalion,  while  his  Commander  was  on  leave. 

"He  was  beloved  by  us  all — officers  and  men  alike — 
and  he  leaves  a  real  blank,  and  though  he  never  joined 
our  regiment,  I  can  assure  you  the  Highland  Light  In- 
fantry will  always  be  proud  to  have  borne  his  name  on 
their  roll. 

"For  myself  I  feel  a  better  man  for  having  had  him 
as  a  friend.  .  .  . 

"Yours  most  sincerely, 
"R.  E.  Prentice  (Lt.-Col.), 
"(High.  Lt.  Inf.)." 


420    MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

"6th  January,  191 8 
"My  dear  Stella, 

".  .  .  Beo  has  shown  himself  to  be  an  absolute  hero, 
not  once,  but  many  times  during  the  war.  Surely  he 
surpassed  even  your  good  opinion  of  him.  Certainly  he 
was  one  of  the  great  soldiers  of  this  war.  If  we  win, 
it  will  be  due  to  men  of  his  courage  and  example. 

"I  know  how  much  you  loved  him.  For  such  love 
there  is  no  consolation  except,  perhaps,  the  knowledge 
that  all  men  who  know  what  he  has  done  are  moved  to 
the  deepest  of  their  feelings  with  reverence  and  admira- 
tion. 

"Neville  Lytton."  * 

"7th  January,  19 18. 
"My  dear  Beatrice, 

"I  am  so  sad  that  you  should  have  this  ordeal  to  go 
through,  and  I  wish  I  knew  any  way  to  comfort  you. 
How  much  rather  would  you  have  this  sorrow  than  never 
had  a  son  who  would  go  to  the  war  and  die  fighting  gal- 
lantly for  his  country.  How  good  that  you  have  had  a 
son  who  stood  the  supreme  test  of  manhood.  And  in 
those  three  years  he  lived  thirty  of  such  lives  as  mine;  he 
had  in  them  the  work  he  was  so  fitted  to  do  superlatively 
well,  all  the  joys — that  come  to  most  lives  that  are  spread 
over  many  years.  He  died  in  great  honour.  Surely  you 
are  a  proud  woman  as  well  as  a  sad  one. 

"I  shall,  of  course,  come  to  see  you  any  time  you 
want  me. 

"Yours  affectionately, 

"J.  M.  Barrie." 


* 


Major   the    Honourable    Neville   Lytton. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     421 

"Stanway. 
"Dearest  Stella, 

"How  can  I  write?  You  are  never  out  of  my  mind 
for  a  second.  I  heard  the  sad,  sad  news  yesterday,  and 
knew  that  the  cruel  blow  which  had  fallen  on  so  many 
hearts — the  cruellest  blow — has  fallen  upon  your  poor 
heart,  and  I  think  you  will  believe  that  there  is  no  one 
who  feels  for  you  more  than  I  do,  for  every  reason.  I 
know  how  you  adored  Beo,  and  Beo  is  associated  with 
our  happy  past.  He  and  Ego*,  what  happy  days  they 
had  together  here;  what  fun  they  had  at  the  stump 
cricket — their  test  matches  in  the  barn. 

"If  you  have  one  of  the  Christmas  Cards  left,  I'd 
love  to  have  it.  Dearest,  I  can't  write  more  now.  I 
wish  I  could  save  you  from  the  suffering — the  anguish; 
but,  alas!  one  can't,  except  by  just  deep,  loving  sympathy, 
which  does  strengthen  just  a  little.  You  have  joined 
the  band  of  those  who  mourn  for  heroes — and  Beo  was  a 
glorious  soldier.     Bless  him!  and  God  comfort  you. 

"Your  loving  friend, 
"Mary  Wemyss." 

"Taplow  Court, 
"February   6th,    19 18. 
"Dearest  Stella, 

"This  is  only  a  tiny  line  to  thank  you  for  sending  me 
the  card.  I  think  Beo's  spirit  and  his  generous  braveness 
are  shining  through  you  and  helping  you !  !  I  know, 
alas !  that  nothing  can  save  you  from  all  the  agony  of 
longing  and  missing;  disappointment  and  the  long,  weary 
way  one  has  to  trudge  through !  But  I  see  by  the 
strength  and  bravery  of  your  beautiful  letter  that  you 

♦Lord  Elcho,  the  eldest  son  of  the  present  Earl  of  Wemyss,  killed  in 
the  late  action  against  the  Turks  at  the  battle  of  Katia. 


422     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

are,  indeed,  a  worthy  mother  of  your  glorious  soldier 
son.  I  remember  a  story  you  used  to  tell  me  of  Beo, 
when  you  were  scolding  him,  falling  asleep  hugging  his 
cricket  bat!  *  What  boys  they  were!  Their  eagerness 
at  games;  their  self-training  and  courage.  Seriousness 
and  fun  helped  them  to  be  the  soldiers  they  were. 

"I  have  a  lovely  letter  to  show  you  some  day,  that 
Beo  wrote,  with  pictures  of  himself  and  Ego  at  cricket 
in  the  pouring  rain,  and  at  golf  on  Cleeve  Hill  playing 
up  and  down  precipices.  You  must  come  quickly  to  see 
us  at  Stanway  some  day  when  you  can  leave  your  work. 

"Your  words  are  a  help  to  me;  each  one  helps  the 
other,  for  your  courage  comes  when  one  feels  inclined 
to  flag  and  fail,  and  it  helps  one  on  again. 

"God  bless  you. 


"Mary  Wemyss." 


A  brother  officer  wrote: 


"In  the  trenches, 
"4th  January,  19 18. 
"My  dear  Mrs.  Cornwallis  West, 

".  .  .  His  indomitable  cheerfulness,  his  faithfulness 
to  his  comrades  and  his  own  Division,  his  staunch  pa- 
triotism and  lofty  ideals,  all  endeared  him  to  his  fellow 
officers  and  the  men  who  served  with  him. 

"I  hope  you  may  see  with  his  own  clear  vision  the 
Great  Cause  for  which  his  sacrifice  was  made,  so  that  the 
pain  of  your  own  sacrifice  may  be  lessened  somewhat  by 
the  knowledge  of  how  he  died — and  for  whom. 

"Richard  Donaldson, 
"(Lieut,  R.  N.  V.  R.)." 

*  I  remember  his  words,  too — "Your  voice  is  so  lovely  it  sends  me  to 
sleep !" 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     423 

"11,  Charles  Street, 

"S.  w. 

"Dear  Mrs.  Cornwallis  West, 

"I  was  Brigade  Major  to  the  Brigade  in  which  your 
son  was,  and  saw  a  great  deal  of  him  during  the  last 
year.  May  I  tell  you  how  deeply  I  sympathise  with  you 
in  your  sorrow?  Alan  was  one  of  the  most  popular 
people  in  the  Naval  Division,  and  certainly  one  of  the 
most  plucky  people  I  know.  He  had  done  so  well,  and 
he  is  a  great  loss  to  the  Division.  General  Prentice 
and  I  were  very  glad  when  he  got  his  commission  in  the 
Highland  Light  Infantry,  and  it  would  have  been  so 
nice  to  have  had  him  in  the  regiment. 

"He  often  used  to  talk  to  me  of  you,  and  I  felt  I 
would  like  to  tell  you  how  very  much  I  feel  for  you.   .   .   . 

•      •      • 

"Alexander  Telfer-Smollett." 
'3rd  Bn.  Machine  Gun  Corps, 


"Clipstone   Camp. 
"5th  January,  19 18. 
"Dear  Mrs.   Campbell, 

"...  He  was  a  great  friend  of  mine,  and  a  finer 
soldier  was  never  born.  I  crossed  to  France  with  him 
last  October,  and  he  saw  me  off  to  my  Base.  My  wife, 
too,  asks  me  to  convey  her  sorrow;  she  knew  him  almost 
as  well  as  L 

"The  tributes  I  have  heard  of  his  work  in  Gallipoli  and 
France  from  his  brother  officers  were  magnificent.   .  .  . 


(( 


"Wm.  Goodall,  Lieut." 


424     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

"lO,  Adephia  Terrace,  W.  C.  2. 

"7th  January,  1918. 

"Never  saw  it  or  heard  about  it  until  your  letter  came. 
It  is  no  use:  I  can't  be  sympathetic;  these  things  simply 
make  me  furious.  I  want  to  swear,  I  do  swear. 
Killed  just  because  people  are  blasted  fools.  A  chap- 
lain, too,  to  say  nice  things  about  it.  It  is  not  his  busi- 
ness to  say  nice  things  about  it,  but  to  shout  that  the 
'voice  of  thy  son's  blood  crieth  unto  God  from  the 
ground.' 

"No,  don't  show  me  the  letter.  But  I  should  very 
much  like  to  have  a  nice  talk  with  that  dear  Chaplain, 
that  sweet  sky-pilot,  that  .   .   . 

"No  use  going  on  like  this,  Stella.  Wait  for  a  week, 
and  then  I  shall  be  very  clever  and  broadminded  again 
and  have  forgotten  all  about  him.  I  shall  be  quite  as 
nice  as  the  Chaplain. 

"Oh,  damn,  damn,  damn,  damn,  damn,  damn,  damn, 
damn,  DAMN, 

"And  oh,  dear,  dear,  dear,  dear,  dear,  dearest! 

"G,B,S." 

I  found  the  following  quotation  amongst  Beo's 
papers,  that  came  back  from  France: 

"To  be  glad  of  life  because  it  gives  you  the  chance  to 
love  and  to  work  and,  to  play  and  to  look  up  at  the 
stars:  to  be  contented  with  your  possessions,  but  not 
satisfied  with  yourself  until  you  have  made  the  best  of 
them;  to  despise  nothing  in  the  world  except  falsehood 
and  meanness,  and  to  fear  nothing  except  cowardice." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

ABOUT  six  months  after  my  sorrow,  life  be- 
gan to  teach  me  its  hardest  lesson;  which 
must  be  learned  if  we  are  to  comprehend 
in  any  measure  the  grace  of  God : — That  there  can  be 
a  fundamental  gulf  of  gracelessness  in  a  human  heart 
which  neither  our  love  nor  our  courage  can  bridge. 

^  ^  ^  ^  ^ 

My  mother-in-law  was  brought  back  very  ill 
from  the  South  of  France.  For  a  short  time  she  was 
in  a  nursing  home  in  London.  Daisy  Pless  asked 
me  to  go  and  see  her.  I  watched  Patsy  as  she  lay 
in  bed;  her  expression  of  mysterious  defiance 
touched  me:  leaning  over  her,  I  said:  "Is  there  any- 
thing in  the  world  I  can  do  for  you?"  After  some 
moments,  in  a  voice  that  seemed  to  come  from  some 
other  being,  she  said  slowly:  "God   bless  you." 

I  asked  her  maid  whether  there  was  anything  I 
could  do. 

"Tell  Major  West  to  come  to  her." 

I  had  not  seen  George  for  a  long  time — I  wrote 
to  him  begging  that  he  would  go  to  his  mother. 

r^  rffk  4^f  'T*  'T*  *^* 

On  February  loth,  1920,  there  was  a  revival  of 

Mr.  Bernard  Shaw's  Pygmalion,  at  the  Aldwych 

425 


426     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

Theatre,  and  again  this  play  went  with  all  the  old 
merriment. 

On  the  3rd  of  June,  the  production  of  Madame 
Sand,  by  Phillip  Moeller  at  the  Duke  of  York's 
Theatre. 

Dear  Madame  Sand — she  thought  it  was  love 
that  made  life  worth  living. 

She  loved  men  of  genius,  and  they  loved  her — 
and   inspired  her  work — 

Some  people  liked  the  play,  some  praised  me, 
some  laughed  at  my  trousers;  some  would  not  be- 
lieve the  cigars  I  smoked  were  real. 

One  man  came  to  the  stage  door  and  asked  how 
we  managed  to  get  the  smoke  into  the  "trick"  cigar. 

And  these  are  some  of  the  letters  that  were  written 
to  me : — 

"Plumpton, 

"Sussex. 
"My  dear  Mrs.  Campbell, 

"I  am  so  sorry  if  I  was  rude  about  your  trousers,  but 
quite  sincerely  they  wounded  me.  If  only  they  had 
been  pretty  trousers — but  they  were  not.  They  may  be 
historically  correct.  But  in  a  play  which  outrages  history 
in  so  many  vital  points,  to  outrage  it  further  in  the  stuff 
and  cut  of  'George  Sand's'  trousers,  would  have  offended 

nobody,  and  pleased  one  person  at  least.     C glared 

so  formidably  at  me  when  you  complained  of  my  critic- 
ism, that  I  did  not  dare  to  ask  her  how  she'd  like  to 
wear  trousers  like  that.  I  don't  think  she  would  look 
very  nice,  do  you?  .... 

"Affectionately  yours, 
"Rudolf  Besier. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     427 

"P.  S. — I  hadn't  really  time  to  tell  you  that  your 
performance  was  pure  genius — like  everything  you  do." 

"62,  Cadogan  Square,  S.  W. 
"Dear  Stella,  they  all  told  me  untruthfully  that  the 
play  was  bad  and  unnecessary,   and  that  you  were   no 
good. 

"I  may  have  failed  to  disentangle  the  respective  mer- 
its, but  it  seemed  to  me  the  play  was  almost  worthy  of 
your  acting — more  one  cannot  say. 

"Many  thanks.     I  enjoyed  it  enormously. 

"Yours, 


"Wemyss. 


j>  * 


"2  Robert  Street, 

"Adelphi. 
"Barrie  took  me  to  your  play  the  other  night,  and  we 
both  thought  you  marvellously  good  and  looking  too  bea- 
tiful,  especially  in  the  last  act  in  your  pink  dress. 
"You  are  a  wonder! 
"I  do  hope  it's  going  to  run. 
"Bless  you. 

"Loving, 
"Cynthia."  * 

"10,  Adelphi  Terrace, 

"June. 
"I  went  on  Thursday  night.  I  thought  the  British 
public  absurdly  illiterate  and  stupid.  After  the  second 
act  I  felt  inclined  to  come  before  the  curtain  and  ex- 
plain to  them  that  the  Coliseum  was  across  the  road,  and 
that  they  had  come  into  the  wrong  house.  If  they 
think  that  Alfred  de  Musset's  part  must  be  sacred  music, 

*  The  present  Earl  of  Werayss. 
*Lady  Cynthia  Asquith. 


428     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

at  least  Crock  will  make  It  clear  that  they  are  meant  to 
laugh  at  him.      Pigs! 

"What  induced  you  to  Imitate  Oscar  Wilde?  It  was 
an  inspiration,  and  amazingly  like  the  original.  .  .  . 
Your  lovely  performance  is  too  good  to  be  thrown  away; 
it  Is  a  repertory  part.  Why  can  you  not  act  as  Intelli- 
gently as  that  for  me,  devil  that  you  are? 

"G.  B.  S." 

"Leytonstone. 
"Dear  Madam, 

"Thank  you  so  much  for  the  very  clever  and  artistic 
play  that  I  have  just  seen  for  a  second  time  in  a  week, 
and  only  wish  I  had  the  opportunity  of  a  third  visit. 
In  spite  of  critics  and  letters,  a  good  many  people  have 
enjoyed  Madame  Sand,  and  personally  I  think  the 
play  has  gone  to  show  a  far  more  pleasing  side  of  her 
character  than  one  gets  from  reading  her  life. 

"There  are,  unfortunately,  so  very  many  ordinary 
plays  produced  nowadays,  plays  that  one  sees  one  day 
and  forgets  the  next.  But  Madame  Sand  Is  the  only 
one  of  the  great  many  I  have  seen  this  year,  that  re- 
mains with  me  as  a  very  real  enjoyment. 

"Hoping  it  will  not  be  a  great  while  before  the  public 
have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  act  again,  and  with 
apologies  for  writing  you. 

'Yours  truly, 

"M.  G." 

On  October  nth,  1920 — at  the  invitation  of  the 
British  Rhine  Army  of  Occupation — I  played  Pyg- 
malion, with  the  members  of  their  Dramatic  Com- 
pany in  Cologne.  They  played  extraordinarily  well, 
and  it  was  an  interesting  fortnight.     I  was  over- 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     429 

praised,  over-entertained,  and  over-photographed. 
On  November  2nd  there  was  Mr.  J.  K.  Hackett's 
fine  production  of  Macbeth,  at  the  Aldwych 
Theatre.  No  doubt  I  deserved  some  of  the  bad  re- 
views I  received.  I  lacked  spirit  and  physical 
strength  at  that  time. 

"The  Empress  Club, 
"35  Dover  Street,  W.i. 
"November  26th,  1920. 
"Dear  Mrs.  West, 

".  .  .  Now  to  the  sublime!  I  feel  sure  that  we  shall 
never  witness  such  a  great  performance  of  Macbeth 
in  this  country  in  the  future  unless  you  give  it  again  to- 
gether. It  is  too  rare  a  combination — two  geniuses — 
which  makes  the  whole  so  powerful. 

"I  think  Mr.  J.  K.  H.  tremendously  strong  in  his 
part,  and  I  hope  he  is  as  grateful  to  his  Maker,  as  his 
audiences  are,  for  that  beautiful  voice !  But  it  Is  his 
lovely,  wicked  wife  who  sends  the  thrills  all  over  the 
house. 

"You  are  a  wonderfully  gifted  woman,  and  it  is  great 
art  for  so  gentle  a  being,  to  be  able  to  impersonate  a 
fiend  of  fiends. 

"The  public  are  intelligent  and  loyal,  and  they  appre- 
ciate and  love  you  and  expect  great  things  for  many, 
many  years  to  come.  Don't  let  selfish,  unkind,  and 
stupid  people  rob  us  of  a  vestige  of  your  vitality.  You 
are  too  richly  endowed  by  Heaven  with  such  gifts  to  let 
the  common  herd  affect  or  depress  you. 

"Yours  very  sincerely, 

"E.  H." 

Then  my  doctor  advised  me  to  make  no  more  ef- 


430     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

fort,  but  to  stay  quietly  in  bed — and  there  he  kept 
me  for  three  months — I  am  sure  it  was  only  my  anx- 
iety about  money  that  made  me  get  up.  I  had 
acted  so  seldom  during  the  last  few  years — and  then 
only  short  engagements — that  I  was  hard  pressed. 

A  good  offer  was  made  to  me,  to  recite  a  Pro- 
logue and  Epilogue  for  a  film  called  "The  Dawn  of 
the  World" — three  performances  a  day — I  got  out 
of  bed  to  go  and  see  this  film.  D.  D.  Lyttel- 
ton  came  with  me,  and  we  both  thought  it  was  not 
so  bad :  thankfully  I  accepted  the  engagement. 

When  this  engagement  was  over,  my  doctor  was 
very  severe  with  me. 

He  said  I  must  go  away  into  the  country  alone, 
and  speak  to  no  one — for  six  or  eight  weeks.  I 
obeyed  him. 

I  had  waited  in  London  nearly  two  years,  for  a 
miracle  to  happen.  .  .  . 

*U^  ^  sif-  ^  sit 

1^  1^  i^»  ^^*  ^^" 

Publishers  asked  me  to  write  my  *'Life" —  a  hun- 
dred thousand  words!  I  laughed,  and  said  I  could 
not  write  a  letter  that  anyone  could  read,  and  I 
knew  only  about  thirty  words — and  some  of  those 
were  ''swear  words."  How  could  I  write  the  same 
words  over  and  over  again? 

But  this  did  not  seem  to  frighten  them,  and  so, 
after  some  hesitation,  and  a  few  pangs,  I  agreed. 

I  found  a  cottage  in  Lancashire,  sold  my  London 
house,  and  settled  down  to  my  job. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     431 

On  the  loth  of  September  I  acted  at  the  Play- 
house, Liverpool,  in  a  very  effective  little  one  act 
play  by  clever  Miss  Clemence  Dane,  called  The 
Terror,  for  a  fortnight — I  could  not  spare  more  time 
from  my  writing:  it  was  a  success,  and  had  six  and 
seven  calls  every  night. 


The  country  and  I  have  never  lived  together  until 
now — a  week  or  so,  visiting  at  country  houses,  that 
was  all,  some  happy  weeks  in  Dorsetshire,  six  weeks 
in  Wiltshire,  a  month  in  Surrey,  and  a  few  months  in 
Wales. 

Breakfast  once  in  the  woods  at  Long  Island — Be- 
fore me,  lay  the  silver  sand — beyond  the  Atlantic — 
behind  me,  the  undergrowth,  the  American  white 
dog-roses,  the  tall  trees:  my  companions,  my  Amer- 
ican girl  friends  with  their  intoxicating  wild  spirits. 

Nature  gives  me  happiness  and  beauty  every  mo- 
ment— the  wild  birds  in  the  hedges — the  robin  in  my 
hall — his  hide-and-seek  way  of  greeting  me  in  the 
garden.  And  my  fifteen  Irish  ducks,  the  silly  hens, 
the  fresh  eggs.  The  Japanese  garden,  the  Japanese 
teal — the  Irises  that  will  be  up  in  the  Spring — the 
thousand  daffodils  in  the  wood — the  fritillaries  and 
other  lovelinesses  that  I  am  awaiting,  and  that  are 
ready  with  their  many  blessings. 

And  the  wind  blows  from  the  sea,  fourteen  miles 
away,  into  my  garden. 

There  is  a  sunken  rose  garden  in  front  of  my  sit- 


432     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

ting-room  window,  where  the  roses  were  blooming 
late  into  November. 

On  my  cottage  is  a  yellow  jasmine,  and  a  white 
jasmine,  and  two  pear  trees,  that  were  heavy  with 
fruit  when  I  came  here  in  the  autumn.  And  then 
there  are  the  privet  hedges  and  the  birds'  nests — 
what  singing  there  will  be  in  the  Spring! 

Beautiful  hills  can  be  seen  far  away  on  the  left;  on 
the  right,  many  fields  and  plowmen  with  their 
horses  and  dogs — their  homes  and  farms  in  the  dis- 
tance— and  crows  and  seagulls  feeding  as  the  earth 
is  turned  over. 

And  rooks  talk  like  mad  in  the  morning — and  at 
nine  o'clock  little  feet  and  children's  voices  hurrying 
to  school — a  small  part  of  my  garden  and  a  hedge 
separating  me  from  the  road  where  they  pass. 

At  the  back  of  my  cottage,  the  country  road,  and 
a  smithy  and  duck  pond — and  in  front  at  the  end  of 
my  wood,  an  old  Manor,  empty  now,  where  I  saw 
the  picture*  of  Mrs.  Wilbraham  Bootle,  which 
makes  you  say,  Mr.  Romney  was  the  greatest  of  por- 
trait painters. 

So  long  as  that  picture  exists,  you  can  meet  and 
know  intimately  Mrs.  Wilbraham  Bootle,  and  the 
best  work  of  a  great  master. 

It  is  not  too  quiet  here:  near  by  is  the  beautiful 
home  of  the  young  Lord  Lathom:  he  and  his  sister 
come  up  sometimes  from  London,  and  have  won- 
derfully gay  parties. 

*  Now  at  Blythe  Hall,  the  Earl  of  Lathom's  new  home. 


©  Farringdon  Photo  Co.,  Londtm 


GEORGE    SAXD    IN    "mADAME    SANb" 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     433 

And  these  are  a  few  more  things  that  I  have 
learned : — 

Religion  and  love  inspire  the  spirit  of  martyr- 
dom— Why? — a  profoundly  troubling  question. 

It  is  this  spirit  of  martyrdom  against  which  the 
world  to-day  rebels. 

The  limitless  martyrdom  is  martyrdom  to  self. 


A  man  built  a  temple,  high  towards  the  heavens — 
built  it  of  all  the  wisdom,  knowledge,  beauty,  art, 
true  speaking,  honour,  glory,  patience,  virtue,  and 
goodness  that  he  had  gathered  together. 

But  the  four  winds  of  heaven  blew  upon  the 
temple  and  it  fell  to  the  ground. 

"I  have  made  the  best  I  could;  with  the  best  that 
I  have  found;  and  all  is  destroyed,"  he  cried. 

A  voice  whispered,  "You  built  in  vanity — lay 
your  treasures  one  before  the  other  on  the  ground, 
upon  your  knees,  making  a  pathway  through  dark 
places." 

He  did  as  he  was  told,  laying  his  poor  wisdom, 
patience,  goodness,  and  all  the  virtues  he  had  gath- 
ered together,  humbly  upon  the  ground — one  before 
the  other. 

And  behold  the  pathway  led  to  a  great  Light  that 
filled  his  heart  with  song,  and  great  peace  was  about 
him:  and  he  smiled  at  the  memory  of  the  temple 
that  had  been  destroyed  by  the  four  winds  of  heaven. 


434     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 


Moral  education,  not  experience,  should  teach  us, 
instantly  to  recognise  what  the  Americans  call — a 
"spook." 

It  is  never  an  "instinct" — an  artificial  fly  can  catch 
the  finest  fish. 


We  only  believe  the  fallacy  that  love  can  triumph 
over  the  character  of  another  when  our  own  love  has 
failed  in  the  attempt. 


Callousness  never  takes  the  place  of  love — only  of 
what  people  are  apt  to  call  love. 


The  instinct  of  self-preservation  is  an  animal  in- 
stinct. 

The  instinct  of  the  preservation  of  the  community 
is  the  highest  instinct  man  is  capable  of — it  must 
in  the  end  lead  to  the  preservation  of  the  individual. 


There  is  a  strange  desire  in  the  world  to-day,  to 
speak  the  truth. 

It  is  the  wailing  that  follows  war — it  cemes  in  the 
wake  of  grief. 


A   child   speaks   the   truth   from  want  of  guile. 
Men  and  women  speak  it  in  despair. 


Our  best  loved  friend  is  always  in  some  way  our 
peer. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     435 

I  have  lain  my  cheek  upon  the  earth  and  felt  it  my 
mother's  bosom. 


I  knew  a  shy  man  who  told  me  his  timidity  was 
born  of  his  dread  lest  people  should  guess  how  fool- 
ish he  knew  them  to  be. 


Refinement  and  breeding  in  a  man  or  woman  will 
take  care  of  itself. 

It  is  the  lack  of  vital  energy  that  so  often  goes  with 
these  qualities  that  must  be  looked  to  continually. 


We  are  sensitive  to  the  human  eye — 

I  have  known  a  cunning  eye  in  a  most  intelligent 

man  that  made  me  set  little  value  upon  his  words, 

and  the  principles  he  laid  claim  to. 


A  lovely  gentle  feminine  eye  in  woman  has  stolen 
manhood  and  honour  since  the  beginning  of  time. 


The  look  of  trust  in  the  eye  of  a  child  and  the 
clasp  of  its  little  hand  can  send  the  Devil  to  sleep. 


To  see  through  a  kind  but  crafty  nature  we  need 
a  super-intelligent  knowledge  of  human  character; 
or  else  a  similar  cunning. 


I  have  known  a  lie,  built  upon  a  truth,  that  broke 
a  heart. 


436     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

I  have  known  a  truth,  built  around  a  lie,  that  saved 
a  soul. 


Actors  and  actresses  possess  a  very  wonderful 
honesty  in  their  endeavor  to  please  the  author. 

They  would  rather  brave  the  censure  of  critics, 
the  disappointment  of  dearest  friends,  than  feel  the 
author  was  dissatisfied  with  their  work. 


There  is  a  story  of  an  author  who  at  rehearsal, 
when  the  actor  fell,  said:  "No,  no,  that's  not  the 
fall  I  want  at  all,  I  want  you  to  fall — inert."  The 
actor  said:     "Would  you  mind  showing  me?" 

The  brave  author  got  up,  and  threw  himself  down 
— hurting  himself  very  much — and  the  actor  said: 
"That's  splendid;  would  you  mind  doing  it  again?" 


The  loveliest  performance  I  ever  saw  was  Ellen 
Terry  as  "Imogen." 

When  she  entered  I  felt  she  had  come  from  the 
moon:  when  she  left  the  stage  I  was  sure  the  stars 
were  greeting  her. 

No  one  has  ever  had  her  magical  step — that  extra- 
ordinary happy  haste,  that  made  you  feel  she  must 
presently  arrive  at  the  gates  of  Paradise. 

The  evening  I  saw  her  in  "Imogen,"  she  forgot 
her  words,  and — giving  a  delicious  look  at  the  au- 
dience and  then  towards  heaven — spoke  three  times 
in  a  voice  that  melted  your  bosom,  this  word:  "Be- 
yond— beyond — beyond " 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     437 

There  was  no  "Beyond"  in  the  text,  but  it  was  the 
loveliest  word  I  ever  heard,  and  described  her  "Imo- 
gen." 


I  have  seen  the  great  Eleanoroa  Duse  only  in 
modern  plays  Magda,  Hedda  Gabler,  and  The  Sec- 
ond Mrs.  Tanqueray. 

To  me  she  was  too  sad,  and  too  slow.  But  in  her 
work  there  is  a  great  dignity,  sincerity,  and  a  fine 
introspection — and  a  tremendous  appreciation  of 
the  nobility  of  suffering. 

I  wish  I  had  seen  her  in  a  poetical  play — or  in  a 
purely  romantic,  decorative  role. 

Her  personality  is  not  new  to  me,  for  she  re- 
sembles strangely  an  Italian  aunt  of  mine. 

Sympatica  morbidezza  is  her  great  charm,  and 
she  commands  almost  slavish  attention  and  admira- 
tion from  her  audience.  The  atmosphere  of  a  Ma- 
donna was  about  her  work.  The  Madonna-like  at- 
mosphere of  her  personality  eclipses  sometimes  the 
charm  of  her  sincerity  in  modern  neurotic  roles. 
This  atmosphere  often  renders  criticism  of  her 
technique  a  small  affair.  Her  beauty  pulsates, 
and  never  for  a  moment  is  there  a  feeling  of 
"tricks." 


Though  perhaps  not  aiming  at  quite  such  a  classic 
standard,  I  think  there  are  just  as  many  clever  ac- 
tresses to-day  as  there  were  yesterday. 

The  "school"  to-day  is  lighter — the  personalities 


438     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

have  somehow  adapted  themselves  to  a  more  girl- 
ish, or  what  is  termed  a  "flapper,"  style. 

We  were  neurotic,  weary  ladies  in  teagowns,  when 
Ibsen  gripped  us. 

To-day  is  the  day  of  the  girls  the  soldier  boys  left 
behind  them,  and  rightly  so. 

That  will  pass,  and  to-morrow  the  woman  who 
"comes  through  with  a  smile"  may  be  asked  for — 

Anyway,  surely  the  enthusiasm  for  the  theatre  is 
greater  than  ever. 

*^  ^  4t  'It 

'■^  *^  1*  *^ 

I  have  never  known  the  "art  of  acting^'  really  cared 
for  in  this  country.  It  is  first  the  player,  then  the 
play — and  always,  "Who  is  your  favorite  actor  or 
actress?" 

I  do  not  find  people  discussing  exquisite  gesture — 
variety  of  tone — and  above  all,  that  most  difficult 
of  technical  difficulties,  the  subtle  tones,  tempo  and 
manner,  which  indicate  the  difference  of  feeling  to- 
wards each  character  in  the  play — or  broad  human 
effects — atmosphere  breeding  and  style. 

Now  and  then,  a  critic  points  out  these  things,  but 
an  English  audience  does  not  look  for  them — or  rec- 
ognise them. 


When  authors  produce  plays,  it  seems  to  me,  the 
absorbing  idea  is  that  their  words  are  heard  by  the 
audience. 

I  have  known  it  carried  to  such  a  point  that  the 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     439 

actors  talked  at  the  audience  the  whole  evening,  mak- 
ing one  feel  not  only  a  fool,  but  a  deaf  fool. 

It  is  a  fault  to  drop  the  voice  now  and  again,  but 
it  is  a  worse  fault  to  bawl  for  two  and  a  half  hours 
unceasingly. 


When  actor-managers  produce  plays — it  is  that  the 
play  should  "go" ;  the  thrilling  scenes  thrill ;  the  com- 
edy lines  call  forth  laughter;  and  the  tender  scenes 
tears — and  they  themselves  make  a  personal  success. 

But  the  real  "art  of  acting"  is  not  considered. 

This  art  has  nothing  to  do  with  impersonation — 
beyond  the  means  by  which  the  artist  impersonates. 
If  a  personality  suits  a  role  a  fine  impersonation  may 
be  given  with  little  or  no  knowledge  of  the  "art  of 
acting." 

It  has  nothing  to  do  with  youth  or  of  age  unless 
the  feeling  of  youth  is  to  be  suggested. 

It  has  nothing  to  do  with  any  real  thing — only 
with  the  technical  means,  apart  from  inspiration — by 
which  the  real  things  is  given  to  the  imagination  of 
the  audience. 


There  is  a  certain  artistic  hysteria  on  the  stage, 
that  is  exasperating — a  stare  in  the  artist's  eye  as 
he  waits  at  the  wings,  a  stiffening  of  his  muscles,  and 
a  throatiness  ready  in  his  voice.  Oh,  that  he  would 
trip,  or  sneeze,  and  suddenly  become  natural,  and 
begin  over  again — the  right  way! 


440     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 


I  made  the  remark  to  a  brilliant  writer,  before  I 
had  heard  of  the  Clarendon  Handbook,  that  I  found 
punctuation  very  difficult — where  to  put  a  semi- 
colon, and  where  to  put  a  colon. 

He  replied:  "That  is  not  what  troubles  me,  it  is 
what  to  put  between  the  semicolon  and  the  colon! 


The  gods  laugh  when  man  would  make  his  genius 
confederate  with  his  clay. 


Art  is  a  form  of  worship  and  thanksgiving — the 
rest  is  invention,  ingenuity,  a  business,  a  compromise, 
an  imitation,  or  a  bag  of  gathered,  or  stolen  articles 
unpacked. 


It  is  a  common  form  of  self-indulgence  to  burden 
one's  friends  with  confidences;  to  tell  them  those 
things  which  we  would  consider  a  breach  of  trust 
on  their  part  if  they  repeated. 

How  eagerly  such  confidences  are  sought — and 
given. 


When  we  lose  trust  in  people — in  time  we  lose  in- 
terest in  them. 


To  be  tolerant  towards  sluggish  natures  and  un- 
responsive minds,  is  very  difficult,  and  needs  Christ- 
like patience. 


MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS     441 

A  fine  heated  discussion  is  a  sort  of  mental  tennis. 
There  are  rules  to  the  game,  and  the  more  intelligent 
keep  to  them. 


I  have  hurt  a  loving  friend  who  wanted  to  see  me 
off  by  train,  by  remarking  to  her:  "I  like  porters, 
not  sentiment  at  railway  stations." 

The  silly  last  words  as  the  train  starts — the  other 
passengers,  dreading  the  fate  of  their  toes,  as  you 
retire  backwards  from  the  window  to  your  seat. 

Or  if  you  shout  your  familiar  farewell,  without 
moving  from  your  corner,  you  have  the  impression 
that  you  have  forced  an  intimacy  upon  the  rest  of  the 
people  in  the  compartment,  which  they  resent,  and 
that  secretly  they  despise  your  want  of  self-control. 

Some  time  after  the  train  has  started  you  have  an 
odd  sensation  of  nakedness;  you  cannot  clothe  your- 
self quite  in  the  garb  of  a  stranger  again. 

I  heard  a  lady  say,  in  a  mysterious  voice:  "You 
won't  forget,  will  you  my  dear,  to  tell  Nora  that  I 

left  the  brown "     Her  friend   interrupted   her 

hastily,   blushing   furiously,   and   said,   "No,   no,    I 
won't." 

I  wasted  the  better  part  of  an  hour  wondering 
whether  Nora  was  her  sister,  daughter,  or  maid — 

and  what  was  the  brown 1  did  not  ask,  so  I  shall 

never  know. 

***** 

There  is  my  beloved  grandchild,  "Pat"— Stella's 


442     MY  LIFE  AND  SOME  LETTERS 

boy — he  calls  me  ''Mother  Beatrice."  He  has  the 
radiance  that  goes  with  a  great  kindliness  of  dispo- 
sition; and  a  very  quick  intelligence — an  elasticity — 
without  which  life  is  a  dreary  battle,  and  possessing 
which — a  battle  fit  for  the  gods. 

And  my  beloved  daughter  Stella,  a  courageous, 
beautiful  woman,  full  of  gentle  talent.  She  has  a 
delicacy  and  distinction  of  inestimable  value  in  plays 
of  a  certain  calibre.  Her  ''Roxane"  in  Cyrano  de 
Bergerac  is  remembered. 

*:k-  :3e,  ^  si^ 

It  is  not  want  of  gratitude  or  grace,  on  my  part, 
that  names  of  some  loved  friends  are  omitted  from 
these  pages. 

I  have  no  diary  to  help  me,  and  so  the  daily  se- 
quence of  events  is  lost;  and  with  this  loss  has  gone 
the  names  of  friends;  kindly  deeds,  fun  and  happy 
hours. 

They  will  come  to  my  mind  by  and  bye,  and  I 
know  the  omission  will  fill  me  with  regret. 

*^,  jife  jjg,  jff, 

1*  *i»  #ir  "^ 

And  here  is  the  book  I  have  written  and  dedicated 
to  you,  little  girl,  because  you  walked  all  that  long 
way  to  see  me  act,  and  all  the  long  way  home  again — 
I  hope  you  arrived  home  safely. 

FINIS 


INDEX 

Acting,    science    of,    109-10,    438-9  As  You  Like  It,  Matinee  of,  under 

Adelphi  Theatre,   82,   83,   84  Royal  Patronage,  74 

Adored  One,  The,  347-8  Asquith,   Right   Hon.   H.   H.,   153 

^ix     314  Asquith,  Lady  Cynthia,  letter  from, 

Aladdin,  58-59  on  Madame  Sand,  428 

Albee,   309  Asquith,    Raymond,    marriage    of, 

Album,    The,    quoted    on    "Juliet,"  278 

i^^-6  Atwood,   Roland,   69 

Aldwych     Theatre,     Pymalion     re-  Aunt  Jeannie,  230 

vived   at,  425,  Macbeth  at,  429  Avenue   Theatre,   152,   154 
Alexander,   Lady,   82,   91 

Alexander,     Sir     George,     engage-  Bachelors,  50-1 

ments  with   to  play   The  Second  Balfour,  Earl  of,  118 

Mrs.    Tanqueray,    82-7,    90,    372;  Bancroft,  Sir  Squire,  104 

his    offence,    117,    372,    increases  Bailey,      Miss      Katherine      (Aunt 

salary,   n8;   in   The  Masquerad-  Kate),  23,  24,  45-8 

ers,    122-23;    buys    Magda,    145,  Bailey,  Harrington,  49 

n.;   sends  for   Stella,   298;   offers  Bandmann-Palmer,        Mrs.,        52-3 

Bella     Donna,     313;     mentioned,  Barker,    Granville,    claim   by,    190- 

92,  301  91 ;   at  rehearsals  of  Hedda  Ga- 

Ambassador's    JVife,    The,   in   Chi-  bier,  273;    stops  the   play   at  the 

cago,   311  Court,  276 

America,    "Press   Agents"    in,   223 ;  Barrie,   Sir  James,   appreciation  of 

"Interviewers"    in,    216,   285  'Telleas,"     176-7;     offers     of,    to 

American  Tours,  in   1902,  203  seq.,  play   in   America,    315;    the   first 

212-236;      in      1904,      260     seq.,  night  of  The  Adored  One,  347-8; 

in    1907,    278-83;    in    1910,    308;  friendship  with  and  letters  from, 

in     1911,     309-11;     in     1914,     376  348-58;     his     handwriting,     350; 

American    Men    and    Women   con-  illustration   of,    354;    his    scheme 

trasted   with   others,  222  for  a  play,  The  JVeather  House, 

American  Parks,  267  352;  letter  from,  on  Beo's  death, 

Ancre,  Battle  of  the,  Beo  in,  392-6,  420;   estimate  of,  349 

4.02  Bates,  Dr.  Curling,  30,  and  note  37 

Anomalies   Dramatic   Club,   30,   37,  Beardsley,  Aubrey,  98,  186 

49  Beerbohm,   Max,   202 

Ant  Hill,  allegorical  story  of,  255-  Beethoven,  308 

58  Bella  Donna,  313,  331,  378 

Aphorisms,   358-62,   433-40  Benson,  E.  F.   ("Dodo"),  230 

Archer,  William,  on  "Juliet,"   136;  Beresford,  Lord  Charles,  254-55,  270 

appreciation  of  "The  Rat  Wife,"  Bernhardt,   Sarah,    in   Phedre,   143, 

153-54;     translation     of     Hedda  182 ;  in  A/a^y^a,  148 ;  as  "Pelleas," 

Gabler  by,  273;   reviews  Electra  176-7;  a  visit  to,  176;   a  loan  to, 

and  Deirdre,  301  and    its    return,    178;    provincial 

Arliss,   George,  88  and  note  tour  with,   179  and  note;   anec- 

443 


444 


INDEX 


dote  of  her  visit  to  America, 
179;  her  attitude  to  flirting,  180; 
the  story  of  an  hotel  bill,  181: 
her  love  of  animals,  180-81 ;  the 
amputation  of  her  leg,  183;  her 
affection,  177,  182,  372;  her 
genius  and  courage,  182-83;  esti- 
mate of,   178 

Bernstein,  M.,  271 

Besier,  Rudolph,  Olive  Latimer's 
Husband,  by,  303  ;  Lady  Patricia, 
by,  311;  translation  of  La  Vierge 
Folle,  312;  letter  on  "George 
Sand,"  426 

Bertram,  Mr.,  letter  from,  on 
American  tour,  1901,  214-15 

Beyond   Human   Poiver,  203-4,   224 

Bjornson,  B.,  203 

Black  Domino,   The,   79,  82-4 

Boer  War,  191  seg. 

Bondman,   The,  271-72 

Bootle,  Mrs.  Wilbraham,  432 

Bottomley,  H.,  154,  162 

Britannia,  Beo  on,  244,   382 

Brodrick,  Lady  Hilda,  198 

Buchanan,  Robert,  78 

Buried    Talent,   A,   68,   69 

Burne-Jones,  Philip,  109;  letter 
of  congratulation,  102;  at  the 
Academy  with,   113 

Burne-Jones,  Sir  Edward  (Dear- 
est) ;  friendship  with,  114-15;  his 
pictures,  115;  letter  from,  on  Rot- 
tingdean,  121 ;  congratulation  on 
"Dulcie,"  126;  appreciation  and 
warning  from,  127-8;  mentioned, 
164,  167 

Burne-Jones,    I.ady,    88,    i2i-22 

Burns,  John,  M.  P.,  344 

"Futterflies,"   a   poem,   143-44 

"Buttons,"   150 

Buxton,  Lady,  399 

Cafe  Monico,   a   rehearsal  at,  278 

Caine,    Hall,    271-72 

California,    295,    299 

Camden  Theatre,  259 

Campbell,  Alan,  34 

Campbell,    Helen,    299,    303-4,    309 

Campbell,  Lieut. -Commander  Alan 
U.,  M.  C.  (Beo),  his  childhood, 
386-7,  421-22;  on  H.M.S.  Glory 
and  King  Alfred,  245-50;  letters 
from,  on  his  father's  death,  193- 
95 ;  on  his  mother's  accident,  263- 


64 ;  efforts  for  work,  278 ;  goes  to 
America,  279,  280;  decides  to 
act,  280;  his  attitude  to  the 
"Interviewers,"  285;  his  com- 
ing-of-age  party  in  Chicago,  287- 
88 ;  in  The  Notorious  Mrs.  Ebb- 
smith,  and  other  parts;  his 
marriage,  303-4;  in  America, 
1910,  309-10;  The  Ambassador's 
Wife,  by,  311;  first  night  of 
The  Adored  One,  347-8;  return 
home  on  outbreak  of  War,  369; 
receives  Military  Cross,  386; 
Naval  and  Military  Service,  382- 
86;  letters  from  the  Mediter- 
ranean and  France,  387-95;  from 
R.N.  Division,  395-9;  describ- 
ing the  Battle  of  the  Ancre,  400- 
3;  other  letters,  403-17;  his 
Christmas  Card,  416,  421;  sketch 
of  himself,  421-22;  killed  in 
France,  417;  his  recreations,  245- 
48;  his  dramatic  talent,  279-83; 
his  letter  to  Stella  on  her  mar- 
riage, 312;  his  affection  for 
George,  374;  quotation  on  life's 
purpose  found  among  his  papers, 
424 

Campbell,  Patrick,  his  youth,  34-6, 
marriage,  35;  ill-health,  36-8, 
70,  118;  ordered  a  sea  voyage, 
37;  in  Brisbane  and  Sydney,  39- 
41;  in  South  Africa,  41-3,  51,  55, 
70-8;  returns  home,  119-20;  at 
work  in  the  City,  158;  joins  Lord 
Chesham's  Yeomanry,  192,  200-1 ; 
news  of  his  being  killed,  192-3; 
military  funeral,  196;  his  grave, 
399;  estimate  of,  i2o-i ;  men- 
tioned  142,  158 

Campbell,  Stella  (daughter),  birth, 
37;  her  education  in  Dresden, 
251;  presented  at  Court,  254; 
wants  to  act,  254-5;  '"  America 
with  her  mother,  260,  263,  265-66, 
278;  at  Raymond  Asquith's 
wedding,  278;  as  "Mrs.  Elv- 
sted,"  280;  as  "Chrysothemis," 
292 ;  in  The  Moon  of  Yamato, 
298;  in  The  Thunderbolt,  298- 
99;  leading  lady  for  Harry 
Irving,  310;  wants  to  marry  and 
give  up  the  stage,  310;  goes  to 
Africa  to  get  married,  311-12; 
her    son    Pat,   441 ;    estimate    of, 


INDEX 


445 


2i6,  442;  letter  on  her  mother's 
marriage,  374;  other  letters, 
250-53;  her  beauty,  254;  men- 
tioned, 138,   157,   193,  288 

Canary,   The,  150,  i88 

Cantor,  President  of  Manhattan 
Borough,  the  "tanbark"  incident, 
226-27 

Carlyon  Sahib,  igz 

Carolan,  Mrs.  Harriet,  296 

Caruso,  in  the  Earthquake  at  San 
Francisco,  296 

Caton,  Mrs.  Arthur,  213 

Cavendish,  Lady  Edward,   163 

Chamberlain,    Doctor,    266 

Chambers,  Haddon,  128 

Chesham,  Lord,   192,  195-96 

Chicago,   212-14,    315 

Clarkson,  W.,  176 

Clouds,  314 

Creyke,   Caroline,   103 

Creyke,  Diana  (Mrs.  Ker  Seymer), 
137-38 

Criterion  Theatre,  273,  278 

Cole,  George,  a  sailor,  letter  of 
thanks  from,  379-80 

Colquhoun,    Mr. — ■ — ,   71-2 

Cologne,  Pygmalion  at,  428 

Coliseum  Theatre,  379 

Conried,  Heinrich,  231   and  note 

Coppee,   Frangois,    142 

Cornwallis-West,  Beatrice  Stella, 
her  lineage,  1-4,  89,  113,  her 
name,  10,  50,  early  years,  15-22 
seq.;  first  visit  to  a  theatre,  25; 
education,  22-26;  appearance  as 
an  amateur,  30,  37;  youthful 
poem,  30;  marriage  to  Patrick 
Campbell  and  early  struggles, 
35;  first  engagements  with  Frank 
Green's  Company,  49-51 ;  with 
Ben  Greet's  Touring  Company, 
57-61 ;  overworked  and  ill 
(1891),  69-74;  at  the  Adelphi, 
82;  typhoid  fever,  79-81;  effects 
of,  82;  back  to  the  Adelphi,  82; 
engagement  with  George  Alex- 
ander, 83  seq.;  social  success 
and  anecdotes,  105-107;  imperti- 
nent criticisms,  io8-iio;  death  of 
her  father,  113;  Beo's  illness,  116; 
strained  relations  with  George 
Alexander,  117-122;  her  hus- 
band's   return    and    illness,    119- 


121 ;  at  the  Haymarket  and  at 
the  Garrick,  128-9;  voice  failure, 
130;  at  the  Lyceum  (1895),  133 
seq.;  (1896),  142  seq.;  (1898), 
162;  a  supper  party,  138;  retires 
from  Michael  and  His  Lost  An- 
gel,  141;  tired  out,  151;  at  the 
Avenue  (1896-7),  152,  154; 
breakdown,  156;  visit  to  Hatch 
House,  156;  tour  in  Germany, 
162  seq.;  at  the  Prince  of  Wales 
Theatre,  163  seq.;  the  Dublin 
critics  demur,  162;  the  Syndi- 
cate's formation,  187;  at  the 
Kennington  Theatre  and  Prince 
of  Wales  (1899)  and  at  the 
Royalty  (1900)  187-88;  Gran- 
ville Barker's  claim,  190-91; 
Pat  killed  in  the  Boer  War, 
192  seq.;  sympathetic  reception 
on  return  to  work,  201 ;  provin- 
cial tours  (1900)  and  return  to 
the  Royalty,  202;  bankruptcy 
threatens,  and  first  American  tour 
arranged,  203;  in  Chicago 
(1902),  212-14;  in  New  York, 
214  seq.;  the  Phonograph  Story, 
219-20;  ill,  220;  second  American 
tour  (September,  1902),  222; 
"tanbark"  in  New  York,  223- 
229;  "Stinkbugs"  in  St.  Louis, 
230;  at  Garden  Theatre  in  New 
York,  230-36;  in  London  again 
(1904)  at  the  Imperial,  237; 
death  of  Uncle  Harry,  238;  at 
the  Camden  Theatre,  259;  third 
visit  to  America,  260;  breaks 
knee-cap  in  Philadelphia,  261- 
66 ;  the  rescue  of  a  dog  and  the 
frozen  birds,  267-8;  the  hotel 
fire,  269;  the  Mexican  paraket, 
270-71 ;  provincial  tour  in  Eng- 
land (1905)  with  Sarah  Bern- 
hardt, 179,  271 ;  at  the  Coronet, 
the  Criterion,  and  Drury  Lane 
(1906),  271-72;  at  Court  The- 
atre (1907),  273-7;  losses,  278; 
to  America  again  with  Beo  and 
Stella  (1907),  278;  the  "inter- 
viewers," 285;  in  Canada,  288; 
the  strain  over  Electra,  291-92 
and  note;  matinee  for  theatrical 
profession  in  New  York,  294-95; 
in  San  Francisco,  295-98;   return 


446 


INDEX 


from  America  and   death  of  her 
mother,  298-300;  on  tours  and  at 
New   Theatre    (1908),    301-2;    at 
the  Vaudeville  (1909),  503;  Beo's 
marriage,    303-4;    His    Boirovjed 
Plumes   produced,   304-6;    e;ossip, 
307,  309;   at  His  Majesty's  The- 
atre,   307-8;    in   America    (1910) 
at    ,£500    a    week,    308-9;    break- 
down and  ordered  to  St.  Agathes 
des    Monies,     310;     in     Chicago, 
315;    at    the   Haymarket    (1911), 
311-12;  Stella's  marriage,  311-12; 
in    New     York,    309-10;     at     St. 
James'    Theatre,    313;    in    a    cab 
accident,  314-15;  to  Aix,  314;  ill 
in    Keiisingion   Sijuare,    316   seq.; 
in   a   nursing  home,    333   seq.;   at 
work    again,    341  ;     at    rehearsal 
with    G.   B.    Shaw,   342    seq.;   in 
Richmond    Park,    344;    the    pro- 
duction    of     The     Adored     One 
(1913))  348  seq.;  revival  of  The 
Second     Mrs.     Tanqueray,     373 ; 
marries  George  Cornwallis-West 
(1914),  373-75;  the  first  night  of 
Pygmalion      at      His      Majesty's, 
375 ;     in    America,     acting     with 
George,     376;     the     outbreak    of 
War,   376;   visit  to  Ruthlin   Cas- 
tle,    378;     at     St.     James'     The- 
atre   and    London    Opera    House 
(1916),  378;  George's  Pro  Fatria 
at    the    Coliseum    (1917),    378-9; 
the    Duke    of    York's,    379;    Beo 
killed    in    France,    381 ;    George's 
silence,  381 ;   life's  hardest  lesson, 
425;     at    the    Aldwych    and    the 
Duke    of    York's    (1920),    425-8; 
the     "Kreek"    cigar,     426;     Pyg- 
malion  in    Cologne   and   Macbeth 
at     the     Aldwych,     428-9;     three 
months'  illness,  430;    recites  Pro- 
logue    and     Epilogue     for     The 
Daivn   of   the   JVorld   Film,   430; 
in    a   Lancashire  cottage,  430-42; 
contrasted   with   Ada   Rehan,   68; 
with   Ellen   Terry,   159-60. 
Characters  of: — 

"Agnes    Ebbsmith,"     128,     129, 

131 
"Beata,"   230-32 
"Clarice  Berton,"  iz 
"Dulcie,"  124-5 


"Electra,"   290-92 

"Eliza    Doolittle,"    345-6 

"Fedora,"  131 

"Hedda,"  273-76 

"Japanese  Lady,  A,"  298 

"Juliet,"    133-140 

"Magda,"    10,   145,   146-49,   189 

"Melisande,"   162,   165,  178 

"Militza,"  142 

"Ophelia,"    159-60 

"Paula     Tanqueray,"     81     seq., 
107-8 

"Rat  Wife,  The,"  152 

"Teazle,    Lady,"    150 

"Rita,"  152-53 

"Rosalind,"  68-9 

"Zoraza,"  260 

And  see   under  titles   of  Plays 

in  luhich  she  has  acted 
Her  sensitiveness,  94;  her  won- 
derful voice,  152;  her  attitude 
to  flirtation,  179-80;  to  immo- 
rality, 214,  her  humour,  222; 
her  personality,  293 ;  her  hands 
and  appearance,  370-71;  her 
writing,  379,  430 
Cornvvallis-West,  George,  friend- 
ship with,  307;  gossip  concern- 
ing, 316,  his  cry  for  help,  321; 
his  divorce  and  remarriage,  373; 
joins  his  wife  and  acts  in  Amer- 
ica, 376;  bankrupt,  378;  writes 
Pro  Patria,  379;  appreciates  his 
wife's  cooking,  380;  silent,  381; 
his  wife's  letter  to  him  regarding 
his  mother's  illness,  425 
Cornwallis-West,   Colonel   William 

C.  378-9 
Cornwalhs-West,      Mrs.      (Patsy), 

377-8,   425 
Coronet   Theatre,    271 
Court  Theatre,  273-75 
Courtney,  W.   L.,   177,  271 
Creyke,    Diana,    137-38 

Daily    Telegraph,    The,    quoted    on 
Masqueraders,  124-25;  on  Magda, 
148 ;    on   Pelleas   and  Melisande, 
ijft-T,   report  of  the  Philadelphia 
accident,  264 
Dane,   Miss   Clemence,  431 
Davidson,   John,    102;    his   transla- 
tion  of  Pour   la    Couronne,   142 ; 
of    Ruy    Bias     (A    Queen's    Ro- 
mance), 237 


INDEX 


447 


Daventry,  Mr.   and  Mrs.,  202 

Daivn  of  the  World,  The,  film,  430 

d'Humiere,   Comte  Robert,  287 

Deirdre,  301-2 

Donaldson,  Lieut.  Richard,  letter 
from,  on  Beo's  death,  422-3 

du  Maurier,  Gerald,  in  The  Ca- 
nary, 188;  in  The  Fantasticks, 
202 ;  in  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Daventry, 
202;  produces  The  Dust  of 
Egypt,  315 

Dudley,  Rachel,  Countess  of,  374 

Duke  of  York's  Theatre,  381,  426 

Dulwich,  29,  80 

Duse,  Eleanora,  146,  437 

Dust  of  Egypt,  The,  by  Beo,  315 

Drama  of  the  Month,  223 

Drury  Lane,  271-72 

Eddie,  Mrs.  Spencer,  213 

Eden,  Lady,  176 

E.  H.,  429 

Elcho,  Lord,  421 

Electra,  as  played  in  Germany, 
France  and  England,  287,  in. 
New  York,  287 ;  matinee  to  the 
theatrical  profession,  288-89;  in 
San  Francisco,  294;  at  New  The- 
atre, 295;  on  tour,  301,  302;  de- 
scription of,  288-89 ;  criticism  on, 
290-92 

Elizabeth,   Queen,   63 

Embleton,  Dr.,  155 

Emery,  Miss  Winifred,  142 

Es  Lebe  Das  Leben,  and  see,  Joy  of 
Living,  230 

Expiation,  309,  310-11 

False  Gods,  307-8 

Fantasticks,    The,   202 

Farren,   William,   151 

Faure,    M.    Gabriel,    164,    165,   289 

Fedora,   131 

Fernard,  C.  B.,  183 

Filippi,  Rosina,  303 ;  appreciation 
of  "Magda,"  150;  teaches  Stella, 
278 

Frohman,  Charles,  313;  at  rehear- 
sals, 227  ;  produces  The  Sorceress 
in   America,   257 

Galley,  Ladv,  29 

Garden  Theatre,  New  York,  230 

Garrick   Theatre,    128 


Gatti,   Messrs,   82,   84 

"Gensing  Lodge,"  St.  Leonards, 
281 

Gibson,    Mrs.    Dara,    221 

Gladstone,   Viscountess,  278,   348 

Globe,  The,  quoted,   94 

Glory,  H.M.S.,  245-6 

Goodall,  Lieut.  Wm.,  423 

Gosse,  Edmund,  appreciation  of 
"Agnes  Ebbsmith,"  131-32;  of 
"Juliet,"  137-38;  of  Beyond  Hu- 
man Poiver,  208 

Gould,  Nutcombe,  87  and  note,  88, 

141 
Gran,  Albert,  190 
Green,  Frank,  50 
Greet,    Ben,    62,    63,    69;    Pastoral 

Players    Company,    50   and   note, 

57-63,    133 

Grey,  Countess,  288 

Grey,  4th  Earl,  288;  in  the  Syndi- 
cate,  187,  203 

Grey,  Viscountess,  of  Fallodon,  364 

Grosvenor,  Countess,  198 

Guildhall  School   of   Music,  27,  28 

\ 

Hackett,  J.  K.,  183-84,  425 
Hapgood,  Norman,  222,  309 
Happy  Hypocrite,  The,  202 
Hare,   Sir  John,   62;   produces  No- 
torious Mrs.   Ebbsmith,   128,   130 
Harris,   Frank,   153,   202 
Harvey,   Martin,   164,  203 
Hatch  House,  156 
Hatton,  Miss  Bessie,  97 
Hawksley,  Bouchier  F.,  controls  the 
Syndicate,    187;    Granville    Bar- 
ker's   [claim,     190-91 ;     American 
tour,    202,    203 ;    repayments    to, 
215,  217;  in  Pinkie's  case,  270-71; 
helps  Beo,  278-79 
Hawthorne,   Murray,   69 
Haymarket    Theatre,    130,    311 
Hedda   Gabler,   at   the   Court,   and 
Press  criticisms,  273-76;   in   New 
York,    286;    in    Kalamazoo    and 
elsewhere,  286 
Heinemann,  William,   153,  276 
Hichens,  Robert,  378 
Hicks    Theatre,    307 
His  Borroived  Plumes,  304-7 
His    Majesty's   Theatre,   307-8,   375 
Horner,   Catherine,  278 
Horner,   Lady,    64-5;    anecdotes   of 


448 


INDEX 


her  children,  368-9;  wedding  con- 
gratulations,   374;     estimate    of, 

367-8 
Horner,  Sir  John,  367 
Hugo,  Victor,  237 

Ibsen,    characteristics    of    his    art 

275-76 
Ibsen's   Hedda    Gabler,   273-75.  . 
Illiteracy,   G.   B.    Shaw's   definition 

of,   345 
Imperial  Theatre,  237 
Irving,    Sir    Henry,    133,    140;    his 

appreciation  of  "Ophelia,"   160 
Irving,  Harry,   engages  Stella,  310 

Jameson,  Sir  Starr,  71,  187 

Jerram,  Major,  C.  F.,  417-18 

John-a-Dreams,    86,    128 

Johnson,  Laura,  67 

Jones,   Henry  Arthur,  125,  141 

Jordan,  Mrs.,   189 

Joy   of  Living,  230-36 

Julia,  the  dresser,  215,  217,  272,  314 

Kaiser,  the,  gift  from,  162;  his 
appreciation  of  Hamlet  and  Mac- 
beth, 162-3 

"Kaiser    Wilhelm"    goldfields,    76-7 

Kennington    Theatre,    187 

Kensington    Square,    192,    304,    316, 

376,  403 
Kent,  Mrs.  Edgar,  282 
Kerr,  Fredlc.,   191,  202 
Ker  Seymer,  Mrs.  (Diana  Creyke), 

137-8 
King    Alfred,    H.M.S.,    249-50 

La  Rafale,  271 

La  Sorciere  (The  Sorceress),  260-61 

Lady  Patricia,   311-12 

Lathom,   Earl   of,  432 

La   Vacquerie,   Beo  killed    at,   Dec. 

30,  1917,  417 
La  Vierge  Folle,   312-13 
Laiv  of  the  Sands,  The,  378 
I.emore,  Clara,  144 
Liebler  and  Co.,  203 
Lincoln,  A.,  cited,   362 
Little   Eyolf,    152 
Liverpool,  Alexandra  Theatre,   51 ; 

Playhouse,   431 
Lock,  Sir  Henry,  71 
London  Opera  House,  378 


Lusitania,  life  on  board,  282,  285 

Lutyens,    Sir    Edwin,    363 

Lyceum  Theatre,  Romeo  and  Juliet 
at,  133;  Michael  and  His  Lost 
Angel  at,  141;  Pour  la  Couronne 
at,  142 ;  School  for  Scandal  at, 
150;  Macbeth  at,  162;  Magda  at, 
145;  psychological  drama  at,  146 

Lyttelton,  Hon.  Alfred,  tries  to  get 
Beo  work,  278 

Lyttelton,  Hon.  Mrs.  Alfred  (  D. 
D.),  JVarp  and  IV oof,  by,  259; 
tries  to  get  Beo  work,  260;  her 
devotion,  320;  estimate  of,  362- 
64;    mentioned,    64-5,    284    note, 

430 
Lyttelton,  Edith,  271 
Lytton,  Countess  of,   348 
Lytton,   Major  Hon.   Neville,   letter 

from,  on  Beo's  heroism,  420 

Macbeth,  at  the  Lyceum,  162-63, 
183-84;  at  the  Aldwych,  429 

Mackail,  Prof.  J.  W.,  115;  on  The 
Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray,  loi ; 
"Agnes  Ebbsmith,"  131;  on 
"Juliet,"  137;  on  "Magda,"  149; 
Pelleas  and  Melts ande,  164,  169, 
170;  letters  from,  364 

Mackail,  Margaret,  115,  155;  letters 
from,  365-6 

Mackay,    Mrs.    Clarence,    219 

Macklin,  F.  W.,  49 

Macleans  of  Bairness,  271 

MacVeagh,    Mrs.    Franklin,    213-14 

Madame  Sand,  426 

Maeterlinck,  M.,  165;  the  Belgian 
Shakespeare,  168;  letters  from, 
168-69;  lines  of,  in  birthday  book, 

373 
Magda,  145-49,   189-90,  230 
Manchester    Guardian    quoted    on 

"Hedda,"  277 
Mansfield,  Richard,  263 
Mariana,  202 

Martin,  Dr.,  261-63,  265-66 
Masf/ueraders,   The,   122  seq. 
Maude,  Cyril,  87,  90,  92 
Maude,  Winifred,  150 
Mells,  happy  days  at,  367-68 
Melville,   Mr.,  271 
Merry    fVidow,    The,  292,   295 
Metz-en-Couture,    Beo    buried     at, 

417 


INDEX 


449 


Meux,  Lady,  187 

M.    G.,    letters   from,   on    Madame 

Sand,  428 
Michael  and  His  Lost  Angel,  141 
Millett,  Maude,  87,  92,  117 
Modjeska,   Madame,    133,   297-98 
Moonlight  Blossom,  The,  150,  187-88 
Moon    of    Yamato,    The,    287,    294 
Moore,  Miss  Mary,  301 
Morris,  Clara,  no,  note 
Morris,  Mrs.  William,  140 
Moss,  Sir  Hugh,   62 
Mount-Sully,   238 

Murray,  Prof.  Gilbert,  Carlyon  Sa- 
hib, by,  187;  his  Electra  of  Euri- 
pides, 290;  on  Beyond  Human 
Pouer,  207-8 

Nairobi,  312 

Nasmyth,   Sir  James,  30 

Nelson's    Enchantress,    154 

New  Theatre,  301 

New  York,  215-230,  and  see  Amer- 
ica 

New  York  Evening  Journal,  quoted 
on   dogs,   219,-20 

Neqv  York  Evening  World,  quoted 
on   "Hedda,"   286 

Notorious  Mrs.  Ebbsmith,  The,  128- 
31,  202,  288 

Olive  Latimer's  Husband,  303 
Ottawa,   288 
Osborne,    Mrs.,    265 
"Ouida,"  263 

Paris,  A,  (late  G.O.C.  Naval  Divi- 
sion), letter  from,  on  Beo's  death, 
418-19 

Parental  responsibility,  254-55 

Parker,  Louis  N.,  68,  102 ;  transla- 
tion of  Magda,  146;  of  La  Sor- 
ciere,   260 

Parry,    Sir   Hubert,   63    note 

Pat,  grandson,  441,  442 

Pelleas  and  Melisande,  162-67,  202; 
with  Sarah  Bernhardt,  176-7,  271; 
criticisms   of,    168   seq. 

Pembroke,   Countess  of,   138-39 

Pembroke,  14th  Earl  of,  63-65;  let- 
ters from,  on  "Rosalind,"  68;  on 
The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray,  99- 
loo;  suggesting  Shakespearean 
roles;     110-112;     congratulations 


and  criticisms  on  "Dulcie,"  126-7 

Pennsylvania  University  Hospital, 
262 

Phedre,  143 

"Phelps  School,"   133 

Philadelphia,  accident  in,  261,  265- 
66 

Philadelphia    Ball,    265-266 

Pinero,  Sir  Arthur  W.,  63,  298; 
The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray, 
by,  83-7;  the  first  night,  91-92; 
The  Notorious  Mrs.  Ebbsmith, 
by,   128-9;    letters  from,   102-3 

Pinero,  Lady,  98,  132-33 

"Pinkie,"  217,  226,  243,  261,  265, 
smuggled  home,  269-70 

Pitou,  M.,  178 

Pittsburg,  269 

Plant,  Rev.  A.  W.,  195 

Pless,   Princess,  378   and  note 

Polinelli,   Rosa,   3 

Pour  la  Couronne,  142 

Poynter,   Sir  John,   97 

Prentice,  Lieut. -Col.  R.  E.,  415 

Prince  of  Wales  Theatre,  164,  188- 
89 

Pro  P atria,  379 

Pygmalion,  345-6 ;  first  night  at  His 
Majesty's,  375;  in  America,  372- 
3;  revival  of  at  Aldwych,  425; 
before  British  Rhine  Army  of  Oc- 
cupation, 428 

QUEENSBERRY,  MARCHIONESS  of,  I04, 
156 

Queen's  Romance,  A  {Ruy  Bias), 
237 

Ray,  Violet,  57,  66 

Rehan,  Ada,  68 

Rhodes,   Cecil,  44,   70 

Ribblesdale,  Lord,  65,  303 

Richmond    Park,    344 

Robertson,  Forbes,  produces  Romeo 
and  Juliet,  133;  Pour  la  Cou- 
ronne, 141-42;  Macbeth,  162-3; 
The  Moonlight  Blossom,  187-88; 
as  "Pastor  Hefterdinck,"  145  and 
note;  offers  "Ophelia"  in  Ham- 
let, 158;  in  Germany,  162;  atti- 
tude to  Pelleas  and  Melisande, 
163;  his  acting  in,  163-65,  167, 
183;  breaks  the  partnership,  187- 
88;  mentioned,  140,  154 


450 


INDEX 


Robertson,  Ian,  164,  189;  Earker's 
Claim,  190 

Robins,  Miss  Elisabeth,  84-5 ;  esti- 
mate of  her  performances,  152 

Roe,  Basset,  69 

Romanini,    Count   Angelo,    3-4 

Romeo  and  Juliet,   133 

Romney,  433 

Royal   Academy,    109 

Royalty  Theatre,  Magda  at,  146, 
Mrs.  Jordan  at,  188-89;  •^^'■-  (^nd 
Mrs.  Daventry  at,  202;  Beyond 
Human  Power  at,  203 ;  successful 
management  of,  192 

Ruthlin  Castle,  378 

Rutland,    Duchess   of,   373 

Ruy  Bias,  237 

St.  Agathes  des  Montes,  310 

St.  James'  Theatre,  T/ie  Second 
Airs.  Tanqueray  at,  87  seq.,  372; 
Masqueraders  at,  122;  Bella 
Donna,   313,   378 

St.  Louis,  "stinkbugs"  in,  229 

Sacrament  of  Judas,  The,  188 

San  Francisco,  The  Joy  of  Living 
in,  236;  Electra,  295;  Search- 
lights, 376;  stories  of  the  Earth- 
quake, 295-96 

Savile,  Lady,  317 

School    for   Scandal,    The,    150 

Schuster,    Frank,    164 

Scott,  Clement,  62,  124-5 

Searchlights,    376 

Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray,  The,  at  St. 
James',  82  seq.;  372;  at  Royalty, 
202;   in  New  York,  230,  377 

Selous,  Mr.,  72 

Semons,   Sir   Felix,  73 

Shackle,   Mr.,   192 

Shackle,    Mrs.    Frank    (Flo),    200 

Shaftesbury  Theatre,  74 

Shakespearean  Plays,  production  of, 
259 

Shaw,  G.  Bernard  ("Joey"),  criti- 
cises Macbeth,  184-5;  Moonlight 
Blossom,  188;  Beyond  Human 
Poiver,  205-7;  Madame  Sand, 
427-8;  at  rehearsals  of  Hedda 
Gahler,  273  ;  his  Pygmalion,  342, 
375  seq.;  425,  427-8;  his  friend- 
ship and  letters,  321-46;  on  Beo's 
death,  424;  Chess  with,  336; 
Swedish    exercises,    344;    on    il- 


literacy, 345 ;  stage  management, 

375;  mentioned,  284  note 
Shaw,  Mrs.  Charlotte,  339 
Shaw,    Lucy,    341-42 
"She,"   93 

Sheldon,    Edward,    296-97 
Sims,   George   R.,   78 
"Sibyl,"  240  and  note 
Smedley,  Constance,   189 
Smith,  Marion,  265 
Smyth,   Dr.   Butler,   73 
Sorceress,    The,    260-61 
Solomon,  S.  J.,  109 
Southport,  a  "fearsome  occurrence" 

at,  302 
Stage  life,  285 
"Star   System,"   276 
Stevenson,  R.  L.  cited,  359 
"Stinkbugs,"    story    of,    229-30 
Stone,  Melicent,  202 
Stotesbury,  Mrs.,  376 
Stracey,  Sir  Edward  and  Lady,  314 
Sudermann,  230 
Swete,   Lyall,   54,   311 
Symons,   Arthur,    199-200,   287,   289 
Syndicate,  The,  187-91,  202,  214-15, 

218,  22 

"Tanbark,"  story  of,  223-229 

Tanner  family,  1-9 

Tanner,  Edwin,  letter  from,  quoted. 

Tanner,  Henry  Ward  (Uncle 
Harry),  i,  7-9,  17,  81;  ruined, 
26;  poem  by,  30-31;  letters  on 
last  night  of  The  Second  Mrs. 
Tanqueray;  122-30;  on  Pat's 
death,  192;  other  letters  from 
and  to,  151-52,  156-57,  217,  222, 
238-44;  Bertram's  letter  to,  on 
first  American  Tour,  243;  his 
death,  238;  estimate  of,  244 

Tanner,  John  (Father),  2,  n-12, 
24;   ruined,  death,   113 

Tanner,  Maria  Luigia  Giovanna 
(Mother),  2,  12-15,  35.  81,  262; 
at  Gensing  Lodge,  281-82;  letters 
to,  on  Stella  and  Beo,  280-84; 
from  Chicago  and  Canada,  282- 
84;  her  sufferings  and  death,  298- 
300;   estimate  of,  284 

Tanner,  Miss   (Sister),  243 

Tares,  52,  53 ;  letter  from  the  Com- 
pany, 54 


INDEX 


451 


Telfer-Smollett,  Major  Alexander, 
letter  from,   on   Beo's   death,  423 

Terry,  Ellen,  as  "Ophelia,"  159-60; 
as  "Imogen,"  436;  sympathy 
from,    320 

Terror,   The,  431 

Thirteenth   Chair,  381 

Thunderbolt,  The,  298,  301 

Times,  The,  Electra  reviewed  by, 
301-2 ;  playful  criticism  of  His 
Borrowed  Plumes,  305-7;  quoted 
on  Beo's  Tank  feat,  402.  See 
also  Walkley,  A.  B. 

Toiun   Talk,  quoted,  292-93 

Tree,  Sir  Herbert  Beerbohm,  68; 
congratulations  from,  100;  his 
offer  of  £4  a  week,  of  £60  a 
week  112;  produces  John-a- 
Dreams,  128;  Fedora,  131;  his 
letter  on  Pat's  death,  199;  esti- 
mate of  the  charm  of  his  acting 
and  personality,  307-8 

Tree,  Lady,  131,  304;  as  "Clytem- 
nestra,"   292 

Trumpet  Call,  The,  78 

Vachell,  H.  a.,  376 

Vanbrugh,  Irene,  a  supper  with,  in 

Ashley  Gardens,  138  and  note 
Vaudeville  Theatre,  68-303 
Vedrenne  and  Barker,  273,  276 
Vezin,  Hermann,  50-1,  62 
Victoria,  Queen,  7,  162,  192 
Von  Hoffmannsthal,  Hugo,  290,  301 
Von    Hohenlohe,    Prince   Hugo,    his 

assistance  in  New  York,  231 
Von  Jasmund  family,  11-13 

Waldron,  Miss,  262 

Waller,  Lewis,  237 

Walkley,  A.  B.,  sympathetic  notice 


of  "Juliet,"  134-35;  criticises 
Macbeth,  185-86;  quoted  in 
Times,  305 

Walpole    House,    114 

War,  the,  369  seq.,  376;  cooking 
in,   381 

tVarp  and   Woof,  259 

Waring,   Herbert,   125 

Watson,   Henrietta,  271-72,   277 

Watts,  Mrs.  Mary,  170-175 

Webb,  Barbara  (Mrs.  Sidney 
Webb),    140 

Wemyss,  10th  Earl,  cited,  190;  let- 
ters from,  on  "Magda"  and  Pat's 
death,    198-99;    an   anecdote,   369 

Wemyss,  Countess  of,  letter  from, 
on  Beo's  death,  421-22 

W^emyss,   Earl   of,  427 

Westminster,  Constance  Duchess  of, 

377 

Wharton,  Edith,  230 

Whirlivind,   The,   271 

Wilberforce,  Archdeacon  Basil, 
quoted  on  Beyond  Human  Poiver, 
210-11 

Wilde,  Oscar,  98,  202 

Williams,   Hanbury,  288 

Wilton,  pastoral  performances  at, 
67-9 

Winter,  William,  136-37 

Wright,  Mrs.  Theodore,  206 

Wyndham,  Right  Hon.  George,  159 

Wyndham,  Hon.  Mrs.  Percy  ("Aunt 
Madeline"),  66,  74,  78,  156;  let- 
ters from,  158-9,  318-19;  on 
"Ophelia."  160-61;  on  Burne- 
Jones'  death,  167 

Wyndham,  Sir  Charles,  attitude  of, 
301 

Wyndham's  Theatre,  315 

Yeats,  W.  B.,  208-10,  301 


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